


baby, I'm bad news

by skoosiepants



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 19:02:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21397120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skoosiepants/pseuds/skoosiepants
Summary: “Hargrove?” Steve keeps a healthy ten feet between them, well out of arm’s reach. “You okay?”Billy doesn’t move. Steve almost considers inching closer when he finally says, “Yeah, Harrington. Just peachy.” His voice is thick and low, and Steve wonders just how long he’s been standing out here like a crazy person.or--Steve has no idea what to do with Billy Hargrove.or--The Harry Potter AU where Steve fucks up a lot and Billy doesn't know how to use his words, but everyone eventually  gets their shit together.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley/Heather Holloway
Comments: 32
Kudos: 631





	baby, I'm bad news

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Harry Potter au! They're at Hogwarts for part of it! Nobody sounds British, and this is on purpose, okay? There is no mention of them being American, but they have their own voices. This is pure self-indulgent fun!! Okay, with that over with--
> 
> Massive thanks to Lissadiane for listening to me bitch about this for forever and not letting me give up even when I hated everything. Title is from Rilo Kiley, Portions for Foxes. Fair warning: I'm not an expert in this fandom corner yet. Please enjoy.

1.

Steve has no idea what to do with Billy Hargrove. 

He _ thought _ he knew. They did the bullshit posturing, fresh off of growth spurts, as competitive fifth years. Billy’d come back to school as a fucking _ bull_, and Steve had been, admittedly, kind of a dick. Sixth year was basically them butting heads on the Quidditch pitch and getting detentions for yelling in class. And then, after Billy beat the shit out of him this past October, they settled on semi-amicable avoidance. Steve was a big fan of the avoidance. Billy’s an asshole. Not even...whatever this is can change that.

But now _ whatever this is _ is happening, and Steve doesn’t know if he should turn around and go back to the castle and pretend he didn’t see anything, or attempt to figure out why the fuck Billy Hargrove is staring glassy-eyed at the lake with some motherfucking tears running down his cheeks. 

His face is otherwise expressionless, which is creepy as fuck. 

Steve should definitely turn around and ignore this. Definitely.

He briefly thinks: _ what would Robin do? _

Robin would chuck a rock at him and run.

Steve heaves a sigh so loud Billy _ must _ have heard him, but he doesn’t even twitch. Steve’s protective side rears its inconvenient head--he can’t just leave him there. What if he walks into the water and never comes out? That would _ also _ruin all the cool avoidance they have going on, plus Steve would feel guilty about it.

“Hargrove?” Steve keeps a healthy ten feet between them, well out of arm’s reach. “You okay?”

Billy doesn’t move. Steve almost considers inching closer when he finally says, “Yeah, Harrington. Just peachy.” His voice is thick and low, and Steve wonders just how long he’s been standing out here like a crazy person.

Steve snorts.

Billy slowly brings a hand up to swipe at his nose, but he doesn’t bother trying to hide the tears. Steve isn’t entirely sure he knows they’re there.

The air is chilly for late spring, and the ground is damp. It seeps up into Steve’s boots, even though he’s spelled them waterproof. He’s pretty shitty at charms. His robes are cozy only because of Robin. 

Billy’s got his own robes open over a ratty t-shirt and threadbare jeans. It’s really hard to tell if he’s warm in that or not, but Billy’s always been better at wandwork than Steve. That’s been one of their _ things_. 

Steve doesn’t even care, but Billy latches on like a wolf with a bloody bone and doesn’t let go until you’re crying or bruised. That’s probably why he almost beat Steve to death. One of the reasons. Steve didn’t even get prefect that year, he just wanted to take charge of his little corner of Hufflepuff--Dustin, mainly, and all his weirdo friends--and Billy couldn’t or wouldn’t handle the fact that apparently that included his little sister, too.

So they have their differences, stemmed from the fact that they hate each other’s guts, and here Steve is, hands in his pockets...watching Billy shrug off his robes and tug his shirt up over his head. Huh.

The pants come next, and Steve’s frozen in spot, mouth open. He’s not _ immune_. Billy’s body is unreal. Thick, heavy muscles, smooth skin. The lack of hair on his chest is suspicious, but Steve’s not going to complain.

Billy is _ not _wearing underwear.

Steve averts his eyes on survival instincts alone, both because he doesn’t think he could stand it, and because of the off chance that Billy’d punch him in the face for staring. He probably wouldn’t. Billy likes the attention too much.

But he would never ever let Steve live it down.

It’s broad fucking daylight and someone’s wolf whistle echoes across the lawn, and Billy doesn’t even throw them a cheeky wink or a finger as he stalks down to the water.

Steve totally called it.

“Hey,” he says, “hey, can you _ swim_, Hargrove?” and he knows he sounds like an idiot, but the alternative is yelling, ‘are you trying to _ drown_?’

He’s not going to broadcast Billy’s vulnerability here, that would be the entirely wrong move.

Billy ignores him and dives into the flat, stagnant water. The movement ripples outward as he disappears.

Steve is absolutely not going to worry.

Steve doesn’t particularly like the water. He hasn’t ever since Barb drowned during fifth year; they’d all been there, Nancy and Carol and Tommy H, but nobody had seen it, nobody knows what actually happened, and it still freaks Steve out. He doesn’t even like hanging out around the edge anymore.

Now, he slides down onto the narrow beach and tugs off his boots, drops his robes and instantly feels a breeze cut through his clothes that isn’t reflected on the eerily still water. It’s been too long, and Billy hasn’t come up for a breath.

Cold, clammy sweat breaks out on the back of Steve’s neck, and his fingers feel numb.

He thinks, _ you fucking bastard_, eyes scanning the water line for any movement at all.

Steve doesn’t give a fuck about Hargrove. The shallows are thick with moss and slime, and it makes his toes feel gross. The water is, blessedly, warmer than the air. It bogs down his pant legs, but it’s too late to regret not taking them off--he slogs deeper, heaves a deep, shaky breath when it reaches mid-thigh. He can feel his heart pounding high up in his throat, there’s a roaring in his ears that’s getting louder. There’s an ache in his shoulder joints that’s making his entire back tense up.

He tries to shout, ‘_Hargrove_,’ but his voice isn’t working. He’s not even sure he could move, even if he wanted to.

And then Billy bursts out of the water with a gasp loud enough to echo, flinging his hair back like a motherfucking siren, and Steve is _ fairly sure _ he’s having a panic attack.

It takes a long, slow moment for Steve’s mouth to say, “What the fuck, Hargrove,” and his voice is so thready and weak he’s not sure Billy even heard him until he turns a smile with too many teeth toward him.

“Worried, pretty boy?” Billy says.

Steve swings out to slap the water with an incomprehensible yell. Billy lunges for him with a harsh laugh, and Steve stumbles as he scrambles backward, losing his balance and falling into the water on his ass.

Billy’s on him in an instant, hair dripping over his forehead, hands on either side of Steve’s hips. His stupid tongue is pressed into the corner of his mouth, his eyes are _ mean_, and he says, “Come home with me, Harrington.”

Steve’s mouth is dry. He’s highly aware that people are starting to stare at them now. He’s pretty sure he heard someone yell, “Fight!”

He licks his lips once, twice, and says, “Why would I do that?”

Billy’s grin is still cocky as shit, but his eyes are a creepy blank that makes Steve’s skin crawl. He says, “Because my mother died.”

“Well, hell,” Steve says. There’s no reason for him to say yes. He’s gonna do it anyway. Fuck.

*

When Steve was a first year, Billy Hargrove was hardly a blip on his radar. Small and quiet, a skinny little blond sorted into Gryffindor. He didn’t seem to grow a spine until Maxine started, their fourth year, and then he blossomed into some magnificent beast over the summer and came back with more muscles than any wizard should reasonably have. Steve would’ve been impressed if the new physique hadn’t come with double the hatred, bullheadedness and mean-edged taunts.

The brief, inadvisable flare of lust had fizzled out in the wake of fear, and the fact that Steve wasn’t even adept enough at _ wizard dueling _ to stop Hargrove from killing him with his meaty fists. 

Steve’s smart enough to figure that none of that was really about him.

He doesn’t really know anything about Billy’s family. He knows that he stays at school for Christmas break, but Steve only knows that because Steve stays, too. Max always goes home without him, for holidays, and Billy gets weird about summer. Max told him once that his dad’s a hardass, and that her mom isn’t Billy’s mom. Steve doesn’t know how all this fits in with him.

“Are you crazy?” Dustin says, dropping down into an armchair across from him in the Hufflepuff common room.

Steve makes a face. “Eh.” 

He could try to defend himself, but how? Steve felt bad for Billy, for his blank, red-rimmed eyes, the way he _ clearly _ wasn’t dealing with his grief very well. He doesn’t owe Billy anything except maybe a broken face, but that isn’t Steve’s style. 

Nope, Steve’s style is apparently instinctive and aggressive mother-henning that’s probably going to get him killed. What if Billy’s family is exactly like him? He couldn’t even defend himself when he _ wasn’t _ outnumbered.

Max seems extra grumpy about it, too.

She says, “Why would he ask _ you _ to go?” looking up from her game of wizard’s chess with Lucas just to glare at him.

Steve shrugs. Max is almost as tough to read as Billy--it’s a wonder they aren’t actually blood related--but he bets this is about hurt feelings Max will absolutely deny having. He doesn’t want to get into it.

Mike says, “I can’t even believe McGonagall said you could go,” still bitter about not being able to visit Will in St. Mungo’s last term. “You’ve got N.E.W.T.S. in less than a month!”

Steve doesn’t have high hopes for his N.E.W.T.S. anyway. What can actually be done with a divination affinity, right? 

“I’ll be gone a week at most,” he says. Probably not even that. If someone threatens to murder him, he’s taking off. He’s empathetic, but he’s not a doormat.

Max’s scowl turns up at the corners into more of an evil smirk. “You know they’re muggles, right?”

Uh, no. Steve did not know that. Not like he _ cares_. He’s not that kind of an asshole. But on the other hand, he’s not sure how living without magic works. It’ll be cool, of course, but there’s also a high probability that he’ll accidentally break the statute of secrecy _ multiple times_, and he can’t help but think maybe that’s why Billy wants to bring him along.

*

The first thing Billy complains about is Helios, before they even leave the grounds.

“You really can’t bring your bird, Harrington.” He’s got dark shadows under his eyes, skin too pale. 

Steve says, “How else am I gonna let Dustin know I’m still alive?”

“Funny.” Billy bares his teeth. “I guess you’re just gonna have to trust me.”

Helios turns dark, judging eyes on Steve. It’s not like she enjoys being cooped up in the little domed traveling cage, anyway. “Fine,” Steve says on a sigh. He can feel Billy watching him as he opens the latch. Helios’ heavy body rests on his shoulder a moment, beak nipping at his ear, before winging up toward the owlry. He’s not good at banishing, so he just sort of awkwardly sets the cage aside until Billy mutters, “For the love of…” and spells it away himself.

It’s not that Steve _ couldn’t _have done it, it’s that it probably would’ve taken more than one try, and for a 7th year that’s just fucking embarrassing. His cheeks heat up, but he ignores it in favor of floating his suitcase toward the waiting carriage.

Though the drive to Hogsmeade is short, it feels interminable with Billy’s eyes on him. He tries not to squirm and says, “What?”

“You know how to be _ normal_, princess?” Billy finally asks. He says it with a bite, with a half-smile that’s mocking, but Steve isn’t sure if it’s for Steve, who’s clearly never been within ten feet of a muggle home, or himself, who, Max has assured him many times over the past couple says, is kind of fucked up about pure bloods.

She’d said, “His dad’s a racist dick, and a purist, and let me tell you, being half muggle in the Hargrove household for the past six years hasn’t done Billy any favors.”

Billy and Max get along as well as a couple of rabid beavers trapped in a pillowcase most of the time, but Max has a pedigree almost as pristine as Steve’s, and Billy has a chip on his shoulder the size of a boulder about the muggle Andersons of Shrewsbury and their minor masonry business.

Steve says, “I could just stay here if you’re worried.”

Billy’s lips roll over his teeth, eyes narrowing, but he doesn’t say anything else.

*

Hogsmeade is practically deserted, both because of the hour, and because it’s in the middle of the week. Steve feels awkward but determined, standing next to Billy by the floo. They’re not friends, but they’re _ something_. Enough of a something for Billy to want him there, instead of Tommy or Max. Tommy isn’t exactly capable of sympathy, though, and Max would probably be too close and too nosy. Maybe Steve’s the right amount of support and familiarity, so Billy knows he’s not alone, but, like, won’t get harped on about burying his true feelings.

Or maybe he’s bringing Steve for nefarious purposes. Dustin is gonna be so mad once he realizes Steve didn’t take Helios.

They floo to Diagon Alley, and then make their way through to the mid-morning bustle, Steve hurrying to keep up with Billy’s determined stride. He slides through with his things just before the wall closes up behind him, and he doesn’t even say, _ hey, wait up, asshole_, even though he desperately wants to. 

Billy wordlessly transfigures Steve’s unweildy suitcase into a slim satchel that matches his own, and Steve tamps down the flair of jealousy at his fucking ease. He scrabbles to clutch it to his chest when Billy shoves it at him before stalking out of the Leaky Cauldron.

It’s not too late, Steve thinks. He can still make his way back to Hogwarts. He didn’t make any promises. Billy and him have barely _ talked _since the scene at the lake. 

“Now what?” Steve says. He inches closer to Billy on the sidewalk, wary of the crowds. It’s not like he’s never come this way before, but he hasn’t actually walked London since he was little.

“Now we walk to the tube,” Billy says, talking to Steve like he’s a child, like he can’t believe his incompetence, only, like, Steve is stepping _ way _out of his comfort zone for Billy here, so fuck him.

“Fuck you,” Steve says.

Billy’s brief smile is almost amused. “Think you can stand a three hour train ride, Harrington?”

It doesn’t sound that bad. Steve’s gone on family vacations with Dustin and his mom before, he can totally handle three hours on a train with Billy Hargrove.

*

The short tube ride to the train station is hot, dirty, loud and gross--something Steve can’t even pretend to be fascinated by, which Billy takes in with smirking smugness.

The train ride, subsequently, is long and boring. Billy wavers between flirting with anyone that brushes by them and sinking into sullen silences, leaning into Steve with a heavy, deliberate elbow and staring out at the countryside flying by.

He ignores every shift of Steve’s body, every subtle movement and shrug to just lean even more into him, and it takes an embarrassing amount of time for Steve to realize that Billy’s fallen asleep. That he’s turned his head and stabbed the pointy part of his arm into the meat just above Steve’s hipbone to get comfortable and _ nap_.

Steve considers going for less subtle, maybe pushing Billy all the way upright, maybe squirming out of the seat and letting Billy tumble to the floor. But then he remembers the exhaustion that Billy was absolutely failing to keep under wraps, and the fact that his mom just died, and he just sighs and settles as low as he can, trying to ease the weight off his spleen.

The rhythmic rocking of the car lulls Steve into a light doze, too, and he’s jolted rudely into wakefulness by Billy smacking at his face and calling him _ sunshine_.

He’s not even fully cognizant as he stumbles down onto the platform, and stands dumbly on the edge of the wooden planks as Billy shouts, “Patrick. Uncle Patrick,” at a giant in olive-colored coveralls scanning the crowds.

Billy’s uncle Patrick is large and aggressively blonde, with a bushy, unkempt beard. He’s got Billy’s eyes and Billy’s nose and stands a half a head taller than either of them, a hat clutched to his chest, curls smashed down over his forehead from sweat.

He gives Billy an awkward handshake and says, “Almost didn’t recognize you, Bill. You’re not as scrawny as you used to be.”

Steve bites his lip to keep from snickering.

Billy scowls and says, “Yeah, well,” and then they’re following Patrick over to a tiny beater that barely has enough room for Steve’s legs in the back.

The town is old-fashioned, Steve supposes, in muggle terms. The cobblestones remind him of the village outside of his home, though, and the cottages are charming, and it isn’t a hardship to keep his wand tucked inside his boot--Steve’s more used to magical _ things _than doing actual magic outside of school. If Billy thought he was going to make a fool of himself that way, well, he’s going to have to be disappointed.

There are many, many other ways for Steve to make a fool of himself, though.

Billy has his head tipped into the passenger window. Steve can just about make out his reflection, eyes closed, lips pressed together as Patrick shoots him awkward, tense glances.

Robin’s got a pure muggle heritage behind her. The Byer brothers are half-muggle, on their mother’s side--the important side, for them--and they all always talk about _ appliances _ and _ pens _ and _ music. _

Steve clears his throat and says, “Does this car play anything good?” and he isn’t _ deliberately _being weird, at least not one hundred percent, but he darts a look at Billy’s reflection when Patrick says, “Does...what? You mean, like, the radio?”

Patrick definitely thinks he’s a moron.

Billy’s got on a half-smile, though, eyes still closed.

*

It’s clear, after the car ride with Patrick--who goes back to work after dropping them off at the house--and after twenty minutes with tea and Aunt Charlotte, suffering funny looks but no outright questions, that they think Billy’s mom shipped him off to some posh boarding school that Billy’s dad pays for, that he’s perhaps _ too fancy _ for holidays with them now, and that Steve’s presence is a surprise all the way around.

He hisses in Billy’s ear, “You didn’t tell them I was coming?” after Charlotte gets up to clear the table, and Billy says, “I forgot,” in a way that Steve almost actually believes him.

Charlotte says, “We only have the one guest room. I hope that’s okay?” She looks back and forth between them, like she’s waiting for Steve to protest and say he’ll take the couch.

He _ could_.

He has a feeling Billy wants him to. 

He smiles as big as he can and says, “That’s fine.”

Charlotte says, “Well,” a lot and Billy scowls down at the table with fifty precent less swagger than usual and Steve feels pretty good about himself until bedtime.

*

“_Well_,” Steve says, hands on his hips, staring into Patrick and Charlotte Anderson’s guest bedroom. 

“It’s a bit, uh, small,” Charlotte says awkwardly. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, Aunt Charlotte,” Billy says. He’s quiet and soft in ways Steve hasn’t seen since they were eleven, and it weirds him out completely. Billy usually only has two modes--prince charming or intense douchebag. Charlotte calls him _ darling _ in a slight stutter and pulls him into a tentative hug that looks painful for everybody.

“Um.” Steve grabs his satchel and scoots around them and says, “Bathroom,” and goes to hyperventilate a little in privacy.

The bedroom isn’t just small, it’s miniscule. The bed can barely be classified as a double; Steve’s got long limbs and a penchant for cuddling, and Billy is thick-muscled and mean. This isn’t going to end well.

He brushes his teeth, splashes water on his face, gives himself a silent pep talk, bracing himself on the edge of the sink. It’ll be fine. Sure.

When he comes out, Billy is blessedly nowhere in sight. Steve slinks into the room and drops his stuff in a corner and crawls into the side of the bed closest to the door.

He doesn’t know how long it is before the door swings open, hallway light flooding in and then out again, the sound of boots dropping jolting Steve further out of his doze. The rustle of clothes follows and Steve rubs at his eyes, unsure of the time.

Billy smells like alcohol and smoke, and he doesn’t bother being subtle, heavy limbs shaking the bed as he settles in. He sighs and his hair tickles Steve’s neck and Steve holds his breath, waiting, but all Billy does is knee him in the thigh and roll over so he’s facing the wall.

*

Steve wakes up first. This is good, because he also wakes up tucked close to Billy’s back, face smashed into his bare shoulder, arm over his waist. They’re--_ he’s _ spooning Billy, and pure, fearful adrenalin shoots through him, making him more awake than he’s ever been before so early in the morning. Billy’s breathing is slow and deep as Steve tenses up all around him. His skin smells like sweat-salt and the musty floral scent of the sheets. His fingers flex before he can stop them, pads dragging along the frankly unreal muscles of Billy’s stomach, but Billy doesn’t even twitch.

Steve slips carefully away with his heart pounding, scrambles into clothes, and closes the door behind him with a soft snick.

Dawn is just starting to creep in when he reaches the kitchen, and the house is quiet all around him. The kitchen’s both familiar and unfamiliar, with a constant pleasant hum and a stove that looks complicated and a sink just under a square window looking into a garden. Steve is not a complete idiot. A certain amount of intuitiveness is required for muggle appliances, and while making coffee seems beyond him, he does manage to figure out the toaster without burning himself. 

He’s spreading butter and jam on a piece of toast when Charlotte walks in on a yawn, eyes widening when she notices Steve, and then widening even more when she glances around the room.

“Um,” she says. 

Steve looks around, too. He didn’t actually realize he’d made such a mess, and reaches out with a foot to belatedly nudge the fridge door shut. The milk jug is sweating circles on the counter. There’s a pile of burned toast by the fruit bowl--he hadn’t managed to burn himself, but everything else was fair game--and it took him a few tries to master the correct amount of butter to bread ratio. But, uh. “I had trouble finding the jam?”

Charlotte giggles, and then bites her lip and clears her throat and says, “_Well_,” and then, “Let me help you with breakfast.”

By the time Patrick makes it downstairs twenty minutes later, Steve is sure Charlotte thinks he’s dumb, but ultimately harmless, and he’s got a huge pile of toast to go with her fried eggs. More importantly, though, he’s seen her smile three times and she’s stopped awkwardly stuttering at him, and there’s a good chance she no longer minds that Billy dragged him there uninvited.

Billy doesn’t show up until well after Patrick’s left for work, stumbling in shirtless with his hair mussed and his eyes barely open.

Charlotte’s showing Steve how to use the remote control for the TV, and Steve doesn’t understand why there are so many buttons.

Steve says, “There’s so many different people doing different things,” half in awe of the sheer amount of channels.

Billy says, “You know they’re not actually _ tiny bespelled people _ in there, right, Harrington?” with a sharp grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Slow and deliberate, Steve says, “Are you _ sure_?”

It’s clear from Charlotte’s complete lack of reaction that she’s not entirely certain which one of them is being serious, but Steve did spend the entire morning with her asking about electricity, so. She says, very cautiously, “I, uh, think it’s just pictures, Steve, dear? Bouncing off satellites in certain ways, to, uh…” She trails off helplessly.

Billy says, eyes sparkling now, “Haven’t you ever seen a TV before?” daring Steve to say _ no _ , which is absolutely true, and _ also _to say yes.

His smile is softer, though, even with the weight of his mother’s wake that evening hanging over them, and Steve gamely says, “This is my very first one.”

*

Steve tells himself he doesn’t know why he does it. He’s never lived as a muggle, he’s never visited any muggle places, but nothing’s actually too hard to figure out. So he absolutely doesn’t know why he does it, why he gawks at the still pictures--Robin has several--fumbles over the coffee maker, Charlotte’s phone and the recording function, except Billy’s practically laughing at him, and Charlotte hums under her breath as she makes lunch.

Billy isn’t exactly nice about it, but his mom’s being buried in the morning, so Steve gives him some slack.

In the afternoon, Charlotte takes them into the heart of the town, and Steve eats his weight in freshly made ice cream at this quaint little corner shoppe that smells, incongruently, of both summer and Christmas.

“This is the best thing I have ever put in my mouth,” Steve says. Billy arches an eyebrow at him and licks his lips obscenely and Steve _ does not blush_, because the ice cream is fucking delicious.

He’s used to dozens of magical-made flavors at Fortescue’s, but nothing there can even remotely come close to this slow-churned, creamy bullshit. God. He’s eating vanilla. Vanilla shouldn’t taste better than a triple chocolate boysenberry swirl with caramel chunks but _ it does_.

Billy makes him feel like a dumbass, but also kind of useful, so whatever. Billy bumps their shoulders together when they leave, and Steve has to hide a smile behind his cone.

*

The wake that night is too long, but Steve feels bad about thinking like that: that Billy’s mom’s death is an annoyance. He doesn’t know anyone, though, and he suspects Billy doesn’t really know anyone either.

He hides in the back corner, sitting low in a chair and watching Billy’s face grow more and more strained--his shoulders are tense, he keeps clenching and unclenching his hands, and Steve really hopes he doesn’t punch anybody.

An hour in, and the crowd is so thick Steve can’t even see Billy anymore. Two hours, and it’s thinned out so Steve can see the rounded hunch of Billy’s shoulders, and the way he seems even smaller than usual next to Patrick.

He catches his eyes, sees the same eerie blankness from that day at the lake, and Steve thinks Billy’s definitely going to do something stupid.

Steve abruptly stands, startling a little old lady nibbling on a cookie three seats down. He ignores her and skirts the room. Billy’s gaze follows him, sharp, but with only the faintest trace of recognition. The line of condolences has petered off into a trickle, Billy offering his hand by rote, nodding absently.

Charlotte doesn’t look surprised when he slips a hand over Billy’s arm. Up close, Billy looks waxy and pale, and Steve wordlessly eases him away, leaving space between them just in case Billy decides to flip out and cause a scene.

It’s alarming how docile he is, though. How he lets Steve’s hand move down to shackle his wrist, maneuvering him across the room. Steve follows the back exit signs, opposite the clumps of mourners near the front doors; when they spill out into the side of the building, it’s already dark.

It’s cloudy and damp and Steve shivers, shaking off the humid heat of the funeral parlor.

Next to him, Billy takes a noisy breath, like he’s been holding it in, and it sounds suspiciously like a sob.

Steve doesn’t mention it. He says, “Let’s go get drunk.”

Billy doesn’t move. Just tips his head back on the rough brick. His voice is thick on, “She didn’t even tell me she was sick,” and Steve doesn’t really want to hear this.

He doesn’t want to help Billy _ unburden himself _ or whatever. He feels bad enough, and if Billy starts talking, Steve’s gonna start offering hugs, and that’s just… not going to end well for anyone.

“Are you _ sure _you don’t want to get drunk?” he says. He belatedly realizes he’s still holding Billy’s wrist, and he drops it and angles away from him.

Billy snorts wetly, rubs the flat of his hand under his nose. “Sure, Harrington. Get me drunk and easy.”

“Oh, well, maybe…” He trails off awkwardly. This probably wasn’t a good idea either.

Billy forces a swagger, though, drapes an arm around Steve’s shoulders, and Steve knows it’s pure bravado, he’s seen up close how shorn the threads of Billy’s control are right now. He’s either gonna start a brawl or pass out after one beer. 

It takes ten minutes to walk to the nearest pub. A wooden sign rattles over the entrance in the slight wind. The door is heavy, the knob cold and grimy, and a wall of heat hits them when they step inside.

Billy heaves a breath, arm slipping off Steve’s shoulders to nudge him firmly in the middle of the back, pushing him through the crowd toward the bar. It’s packed for a Thursday--half the place dressed in somber black. Steve doesn’t recognize faces, but a subdued cheer goes up when they notice Billy.

Steve doesn’t think Billy’s eighteen yet, but the bartender doesn’t card them. He knocks on the bar with a sympathetic expression and slides them both shots, and then pints of dark beer.

They sit, elbows touching, and Steve feels extremely weird about it.

Billy just salutes him with his glass and downs most of it in one long, impressive swallow.

One beer turns into two turns into even more, and while Steve starts turning them down in favor of keeping Billy upright, he isn’t entirely sober either when they stumble to the curb, ushered into a waiting car of yet another townsperson who’s _ sorry for their loss_.

He’s clear-headed enough to feel awkward, at first, when Billy hides his wet face in Steve’s neck. When they fall into their small shared mattress and Billy’s arms tighten over his back. He relaxes into the heavy weight of him, though, shushes him with hands through his hair and doesn’t think about the kisses absently pressed on a salt-streaked temple as he falls asleep.

*

In the morning, Steve wakes up to Billy sitting fully dressed on the side of the bed, back ramrod straight. He says, “Come on. I want to show you something,” without looking at him.

Steve doesn’t have the best track record with relationships. The Nancy and Jonathan thing was a clusterfuck. He’d only _ thought _he’d been dating Robin for three months. Last night, Billy’d been drunk. Vulnerable. Wrapped around him like an octopus, fuck.

They hadn’t made out or anything, of course, but in a way it’d been just as intimate, and probably just as much of a mistake.

He takes Billy’s obvious cue, the back-off vibes, and rolls out the opposite side of the bed. Tugs on pants and leaves his sweat- and alcohol-stained shirt be. He’s going to have to get changed again for the graveside service anyway.

It’s too early for anyone else to be up, dawn barely cracking the horizon when Steve follows Billy out of the house, pulling on a sweatshirt as he goes.

_ Something _turns out to be Billy’s mom’s tiny apartment in a row house on the other side of town. He fits the key into the lock and the door creaks ominously--dust motes spin in the air through bolts of sunshine, and Steve half expects to see a ghost.

It’s neat as a pin. 

Steve doesn’t know the specifics, but he’d guess that this isn’t where she died. If she was sick, they wouldn’t have left her here alone.

White and floral sheets are draped over the small amount of furniture. Billy tugs one off the couch in the middle of the room and sits down.

Steve hovers in the doorway, uncertain. Despite dragging him here, Billy’s posture isn’t exactly welcoming. He isn’t layered with the same grief and dread from yesterday, even though they’re burying his mom in a few hours.

Steve is weirdly good at divination--it’s a remnant from his mom’s mother that his father constantly laments. He can do the rote things: tea leaves, tarot cards, stars. But he’s got the object extrasensory stuff, too, and sometimes he stares too long at things, the middle distance, and, like, he’s gotten really good at brushing it off as absentmindedness and daydreaming and shit, because everyone thinks divination is a joke.

But anyway. Yeah. He’s not getting good vibes here. Not _ beating the shit out of him _ vibes, but whatever Billy is projecting isn’t pleasant. 

Of course, Billy cried all over him last night and now they’re in his dead mom’s apartment.

Steve fidgets with his hands and says, “So,” and Billy says, “I need to find Mom’s record collection.”

It’s equal parts a relief and disappointing that Billy brought him there for a specific reason that isn’t talking about their feelings.

Steve bobs his head. “Sure, sure. I can help with that.” 

The problem with that comes when they actually find the record collection. A sturdy boxful of them. 

Billy pulls it into the middle of the floor, settles down with his back propped up to the couch. 

Steve crosses his legs on the other side, hands hovering uncertainly over the lid as Billy lights a cigarette. He tucks it into the corner of his mouth as he slides out a plastic covered _ Back in Black. _

Steve flicks through the other end, choking back a laugh when he finds something called the Chipmunks Christmas album. And he should have known better, obviously, but his fingers curl around the sleeve and suddenly: _ every bulb on the tree is broken and his mom is sobbing, cuts littering her arms as she pulls him onto her lap, saying, “It’s going to be okay,”-- _

The only sound is Steve’s own harsh gasping breath. He blinks light and wetness out of his eyes to see Billy staring at him, a flash of concern on his face that quickly fades into a derisive snarl.

“Shit,” Steve says, panting.

“All right, Harrington?” Billy says, but looks _ too knowing_, and it’s not a secret at Hogwarts that Steve sometimes gets Trelawney levels of weird, no matter how much he tries to ignore it.

“Why did you bring me here?” Steve says. He suspects, but, like--it’s pretty shitty, Steve gets _ emotional_, and Billy could have just fucking asked. “Did you want…”

“Did I want what?” Billy says, taking a drag off his cigarette, looking forcibly relaxed against the edge of the couch. “For your eyes to go zombie white over a record album? What did you See, huh? Was it the time with the bathroom flood that almost drowned the neighbor kid? The bird in the jar? The red-hot pan on the cold stove? The _ fire_?”

“Billy, it’s not--” _ his fault? _ Steve doesn’t actually know that, does he?

Billy laughs, weirdly muffled by the dust and cloth covered rooms. It isn’t actually a nice sound. “You worry about the weirdest shit, Harrington,” he says, licking his lips. “You wanna know why I brought you here, to this fucking town? Because I thought it’d be fucking _ funny _ , watching you try to be a muggle. Because my aunt and uncle would think you’re a prissy little weirdo, and I wouldn’t have to think about how my mom shipped me off for being a freak. A damn _ good one _ , too.” He flicks ashes all over the worn rug. “Not like your useless fucking self. Did you even _ get _an invite, Harrington? Or did your daddy have to buy you one?”

Steve knows, logically, that Billy doesn’t really mean what he’s saying. It’s impossible to buy your way into Hogwarts, first of all, and divination might be largely a joke, but it’s still a magical skill. 

Every word burns into Steve’s chest anyway, though, because it’s not like he hasn’t heard it before. Just, maybe not as _ pointed _. As bare and bald. Steve swallows hard and bobs his head. “Sure, Hargrove.”

Billy squints, cocks his head at him. “Don’t be a bitch, princess.”

“No, I get it. I’m a poor excuse for a wizard. You wanted to see me, uh, make a fool of myself.” Steve shrugs. The thing is, Steve already knows this. He’s been _ playing into it_. So it shouldn’t really hurt this much to hear it confirmed out loud.

Tipping his head back, Billy blows smoke up toward the ceiling, and Steve figures there’s probably a lot of hurt in this room to go around.

He gets to his feet, tucks his hands in his pockets. Stares at Billy pointedly not staring at him. He could have Seen a lot of things, obviously--he just got one at random. He says, softly, “I saw someone who loved their son very much,” and when Billy still doesn’t even fucking look at him, he sighs and walks away.

2.

Dustin is especially delighted that Steve makes it back to Hogwarts in one piece, which is nice, if a little insulting.

“I told you I’d be fine,” Steve says as Dustin pats him down in the guise of a hug. Looking for blood? Anything Billy left on him wouldn’t be visible, this time.

“Good job on fending off the mortal wounds,” Dustin says.

Steve squirms away from him. “I’m four years older than you.”

“And you should probably start acting like it. Do you know how much I freaked out when I found Helios?” Dustin squints at him. “Your hair looks sad, Steve.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Steve says, and pushes past him into the common room. He’s exhausted and tense and wants to drown himself in random kid shenanigans, throwing himself dramatically onto the couch. “I’ve been gone for four days, tell me how much trouble you’ve gotten into.”

Dustin says, “We think Will’s a werewolf.”

Steve swallows a groan. He _ asked _for this. “Will isn’t a werewolf.”

“Mysterious attack,” Dustin flicks his fingers out one by one, “in a weird coma for two weeks, freaks out about mirrors sometimes--”

“How is that a werewolf thing?”

“--says he’s losing time--”

“Wait, wait.” Steve struggles upright. “He’s losing time? Has he been to the infirmary?”

Dustin makes a face. “If Will goes to the infirmary again for shit like this, his mom’s probably gonna take him out of Hogwarts.”

Steve presses two fingers to the pulsing ache above his left eye. “Would you rather something _ really bad _ happen to him?” Jesus Christ.

“We can handle Will as a werewolf, Steve,” his _ duh _is silent and also stupid. “He’s like fifty pounds soaking wet.” 

Steve will bet all his allowance that Will is not a werewolf, but does he really want to argue about this? “You realize it’s almost May, right? Will’s been back at school since the break, same as everyone else.”

“It’s a process!” Dustin throws his hands up, waves them around, and four fifth years glare at them from the other side of the room. He huffs and frowns at Steve like he’s disappointed in him. “Max got Carol to brew some wolfsbane for us.”

“Great,” Steve says. Now Tommy will know and then _ everyone else _ will know and even if it’s absolutely not true, Will’s gonna go from the creepy kid who almost died in the forbidden forest to an even bigger pariah. His kids are morons. “You know that’s poison, right?”

Dustin says, “We’re gonna run experiments first.” 

“I’m done with this conversation. We’re done with this conversation.” Maybe if he ignores it, it’ll go away. That’s never happened before, but a man can dream.

*

Robin is simultaneously a great prefect and a terrible one, considering she lets Steve wander the halls with her on night patrols, and ignores anyone over fifteen sneaking out to the kitchens. She walks the littler kids back to their houses and helps them avoid Filch--after scaring the bejesus out of them--and she makes her steps louder to warn off anyone else in between. 

Their route eventually leads them up onto the parapets surrounding the Astronomy tower. Her favorite part of the job is terrifying nervous couples groping each other in the dark.

“I don’t know how you let this happen.”

“Hey,” Robin says, “I’m not the one who adopted six fourteen year olds.”

That’s _ reasonable_, but also total bullshit. “They think Will’s a werewolf, Robin. I wasn’t even gone a full week, and they’re talking about feeding Will poison.” Steve rubs at his forehead with the flat of his palm. Really, this is his fault. He had no business leaving them alone. “This is crazy, why did I even agree to go?”

“Now _ that _ I can tell you,” Robin says, swinging an arm around him as they walk toward the stairwell. “_Hargrove _has a giant crush on you, and you, my friend, are a pushover.”

“What? No.” Steve shakes his head. That’s… no.

“It’s true,” she sing-songs. “He thinks you’re dreamy.”

Steve jerks to a stop. “He beat my face in.” 

“And yet…” She shrugs and keeps on moving, lighting her wand tip as she ducks back into the dark from the star-bright balcony.

Steve stuffs his hands into his robe pockets, grumbling under his breath. It’s stupid. He’s possibly a pushover, okay, but there is no way in hell Billy Hargrove has a crush on him.

At night, the Astronomy tower has patches of moonlight alternating between pitch black shadows, a trick that makes stargazing ideal, and is favored for heavy-petting.

He hears Robin say, “Well, well,” in a sort of strangled tone that slips out when she’s embarrassed. Steve’s instantly curious, since Robin’s embarrassing moments are few and far between. 

When he reaches the top of the steps, he sees--Billy, sprawled half in moonlight, giving Robin a sharp, mocking grin.

Tammy has her shirt unbuttoned, wide-eyed, like maybe she didn’t actually think they’d get caught.

“Huh,” Steve says, and Billy turns that shark-grin on him. Toothy. Forced?

It strikes him as funny_ , _ really, that they’ve never actually caught Billy up here before: that they probably should have. Billy’s got a reputation, one Steve’s never actually stopped to think about, before, whether it’s actually true or not. And that’s why this feels so ridiculously deliberate, like it’s specifically designed to get Steve’s back up, and he doesn’t know what to do with that, but he’s _ definitely _fucking annoyed.

“_Huh_,” he says again, more emphasis.

Robin makes at face at him over her shoulder, sheepish, and says, “So maybe I was wrong.”

The bitch of it is, Steve thinks maybe she was the _ exact opposite_, and at this moment it really pisses him off.

*

“You know I don’t really give a shit,” Billy says, robes falling open as he leans back against the castle walls, “but what the fuck is up with those dorks?”

Dustin had said something about testing Will’s prey drive, but honestly it just looks like they’re playing tag in furry costumes.

Also, that’s a huge fucking lie, because Billy has a protective streak with Max that’s a mile wide. It’s bizarre, given how they treat each other. Or maybe not, since Billy might possibly have a huge hard-on for him and openly talks about how he wants Steve to fuck off and die. That can’t be healthy.

It’s a huge flashing warning sign for Steve, actually, but he hasn’t decided if he’s going to heed it yet.

Steve says, “They’re trying to figure out if Will’s a werewolf,” because it’s not like he won’t know eventually, and also Steve has no idea what else to say to him.

Billy very slowly turns his head to him and arches a speaking eyebrow.

Steve shrugs, only a little defensively. His kids are weird, but they’re still _ his _.

“Oh, well,” Billy says, entirely too nonchalantly, “they don’t seem to be _ really _trying, do they?”

Steve isn’t sure he’s ever seen that look on Billy’s face before: mischievous, with a soft edge. Evil, but not _ too _evil. “Hargrove, what--”

Billy cuts him off with a wand-flick, an ease to his motion that might make Steve burn with jealousy normally, but his main concern right then is that Billy fucking turned them all into bunnies.

Will _ screams_.

“What the fuck, Hargrove!” Steve yelps. “That’s illegal, you asshat!” He thinks. He’s pretty sure. There was a thing about that years ago, but he never paid that much attention in magical history. And it’s not like Steve believes the werewolf shit, but there’s still a miniscule percentage of his brain that thinks _ maybe_\--the part that, horrifyingly, sounds like Dustin--and Billy just risked all his kids getting torn apart and eaten for _ funsies_.

“Lighten up, princess.” Billy’s lips are pursed, like he’s puzzled by Steve’s attitude. “It’ll wear off.”

Angry, Steve twists a hand into the front of Billy’s shirt and says, “And what if Will’d _ eaten _them?”

Billy freezes, head tilted.

Steve is _ very aware _ that he’s gripping him close.

Billy’s puzzled expression melts into a slow, wide grin. “You can’t test prey drive outside of a full moon, Harrington,” he says, voice low.

Steve’s breath hitches, and he pointedly doesn’t look down to where Billy’s warm hand comes up to cover his own. Instead, he looks over to where Will’s cooing over a pile of fluffy multi-colored bunnies, all scrambling to get onto his lap.

Billy’s breath skims the skin behind his ear as he leans in to say, “You think that kid’s a wolf?”

He doesn’t, not really, but it takes a few dry swallows for Steve to answer, “Guess we won’t know until the full moon.”

*

Steve has problems sticking to his guns. Saying no and really meaning it. He usually can’t stop what’s happening, no matter how much he wants to, so he figures he might as well go and try to keep everyone alive.

This is how he ends up herding six fourteen year olds through the woods toward the Shrieking Shack just before twilight.

You can’t give a kid wolfsbane potion for no reason. Will’s delicate, and even the silver allergen test proved inconclusive. They’ve got iron chains and plucky attitudes and, really, that’s all Steve can hope for at this point.

Everyone seems supremely calm, but El’s the most powerful witch Hogwarts has had in years, so, you know, it’s warranted. Even if Steve still thinks they’re relying a little too heavily on a teenage girl’s ability to soothe the savage beast.

Not that Will’s a werewolf. Sure.

Steve figures if he keeps repeating that in his head, it’ll actually prove true. Dustin’s getting to him. Sometimes he thinks Will’s eyes reflect light weirdly in the dark. Right now he’s scratching at the back of his neck, shoulder’s hunched, and Will’s awkward in all the ways a gawky teenager can be times twenty, but he’s usually not this antsy among friends.

The Shrieking Shack is probably one of the worst places to go for this, considering it’s basically half in ruins, saplings and shrubs growing out of the rubble, even more rundown since they were all there last year. Steve won’t touch it. He’s not usually sensitive to whole houses, but there’s something sinister in this place, a kind of energy that crackles around every splintered piece of wood and spell-burned framing. The front has a facade of normalcy if you don’t look any further. In the deepening dark, it looks like a hulking shadow.

Steve crosses his arms and stays on the overgrown path.

Mike says, “How long do you think it’d take for us to become animagi?” as they swing the dilapidated front door open, and Steve tucks that ridiculous notion away to argue over at a better place and time.

“El,” Steve says as she walks by him. “You have this?” Her dad will literally kill him if anything happens to her. Steve isn’t responsible for her wellbeing, obviously, but he will definitely be blamed as the only almost-adult in this group for letting them all die in an abandoned, haunted shack in the middle of the woods.

El gives him a weird little closed-mouth smile, pats his arm lightly, and then races Max up the steps.

He can hear Will say, “I feel fine, guys,” as it ticks down toward sunset. It’s already almost pitch black where they are because of the trees. Chains rattle; Steve imagines the manacles hanging obscenely off Will’s bony little wrists.

When the thin slice of orange horizon disappears to the west, all Steve can make out is heavy breathing in the silence.

Leaves and brush crunch. Steve smells smoke before he sees the cherry red end of a cigarette being sucked on. A shaky, resigned _ luminos _lights his wand tip, brings Billy Hargrove’s frame into a soft resolution--dress shirt open over his bare chest, red and gold tie hanging limply around his neck. His hips are at an angle, but Steve can’t tell if he’s really relaxed or coiled up like a tiger.

It’s deja vu all over. Steve backed up against a dark house, hiding Dustin and his friends. Max. Max and Lucas, _ specifically_, were the original problems. Other than Steve’s handsome face.

“What do you want, Hargrove?” Steve says, arms still crossed over his chest.

Smoke snakes out from the corner of Billy’s mouth before he flicks the spent butt and leisurely snuffs it out with the heel of his boot.

“It’s a full moon,” he says finally.

Steve makes a face. “And?”

“_ And _,” Billy takes a step closer, “I’m curious.”

“Curious about Will, or worried about Max?” Steve says.

His frown and, “Max can take care of herself,” makes Steve choke off a laugh. It’s _ true _, but Billy probably only believes it because she held a wand to his balls the last time he’d acted shitty. 

He opens his mouth to say everything’s fine, except he’s cut off by several yelps and the shack door creaking--a sleek dark blur darts past them. Steve stumbles off the path, instinctively grabbing for Billy’s arm to steady himself.

Billy says, “What the fuck was that?”

Steve shouts, “What happened to the manacles?” over a low-level building panic, thinking _ Jesus Christ, WIll’s a werewolf _ and also trying _ not _to think about it, while Dustin stands in the crooked doorframe and gapes like a fish behind his wand-light.

“It’s not our fault,” Mike says petulantly. “He got smaller.”

Max says, “I’m pretty sure he turned into a greyhound. Is that, like,” she makes a face, “do werewolves become dogs?”

Steve scrubs hands over his face, groaning. He says, “We have to find him.”

“It’s not like he’s going to bite anyone,” Lucas says with a shrug. “It’s Will.”

“But he’s out there,” Mike says, waving his hands around. “Alone. C’mon.” He makes big eyes at Lucas. “This’s Will.”

“Right.” Steve says. He bounces his gaze from one worried kid to another. He doesn’t want any of them traipsing around the woods at night. He’s not losing more than one of them. “You five go back to the castle. Hargrove and I will look for Will.”

“Oh, we will?” Billy says, eyebrows arched.

“Yeah, asshole.” Steve slaps his chest with the back of his hand and then immediately regrets it. His skin is hot and sweaty and _ firm _and Steve can’t be thinking about that right now. 

“I’m not leaving Will out here,” Mike says.

“Yeah,” Dustin stomps down the steps, “me neither.”

“I can’t keep track of all of you,” Steve says. 

Max scowls and says, “We can keep track of ourselves.”

“Maxine.” Billy’s eyes narrow.

Their collective wand-light has lit up the space around them with mellow gold, and Steve watches El watching everyone else. He says, “You’re being awfully quiet, Eleven.”

El always looks vulnerable and young to Steve, except when she actually doesn’t: she has her hands on her hips, legs planted, expression somber. She’s the only person Steve knows that’s not just _ able _ to do wandless magic, but is _ extremely adept _ at it, too.

She says, “I know where he went,” and also, “I’m going there alone.”

El stalks off to stunned silence, and then Mike throws them a look and scrambles after her.

Steve is too tired for this. “My foot is down,” he says. “I’m serious about this, guys. Everyone back to the castle.”

“But--”

“Do _ you _trust El?” Steve asks Max.

Max pouts. She says, “_Fine_,” and flounces off in what Steve’s pretty sure is the direction of Hogwarts--it’s opposite of the way El went, at least, that’s really all he can hope for at this point--and Lucas makes a helpless gesture and follows.

Dustin yells, “Come _ on_, guys,” after Max and Lucas, looks back to give Billy what Steve suspects is a warning glare, god, and then runs off to catch up.

The woods are breathing weird, or maybe that’s just Steve. Standing there. Like an idiot.

After a long moment, Billy says, “So you’re really trusting a fourth year to take care of a baby werewolf,” like Steve has any choice in the matter.

He doesn’t bother answering, just walks off in the direction Dustin went and hopes he doesn’t get lost.

Billy trails after him; he can hear the movement of his body through the brush--the flick of branches and crunch of twigs. Steve figures if he was completely turned around, Billy would say something. Maybe.

He’s seen more of Billy this week than he has the entire rest of the semester. He can chalk it up to them bonding, if you could call whatever they did in Shrewsbury for three and a half days that. Really all that happened was Steve pretty much confirmed his theory that Billy gets mean when he’s cornered, and that he feels cornered everytime he gets scared. Upset. _ Hurt_.

Steve trips over a tree root and Billy’s hand bunches into the back of his shirt.

“Careful,” he says. “Slow down.”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve says, voice embarrassingly high. “Let’s slow down with a werewolf on the loose.”

“He didn’t attack us when he could,” Billy says, extremely reasonably. Ugh.

Steve isn’t even scared of the werewolf; of Will. That has nothing to do with the way his body itches to get out of the forest. He can tell himself it’s because the last time he was out here with Billy, he’d woken up in the infirmary with fingerprint bruising around his neck and a swollen face. _ Honestly _ , though, it’s because he can tell when Billy’s flirting with him, this fucked up _ dare you to _ that he’s been doing for days, and he doesn’t want to show Billy that it’s actually wearing him down. That it’s working. They both know it’s wrong, and Steve’s starting to not care.

Dustin would be fucking appalled.

He tries to speed up even more--each time he stumbles, his feet trip into a jog instead of letting himself fall, and by the time he hits the lawn he’s practically running.

He can hear Billy laugh, distant, like he’s not bothering to keep up.

*

Max is curled up with Lucas on an armchair in front of the fire, even though she should be back in her Gryffindor dorm. If Billy let this happen, Steve’s not going to get involved. He’s learned his lesson. Kind of.

Steve’s jaw keeps cracking on huge yawns, and Dustin wakes up with a yelp when the portrait creaks open around dawn.

Mike is disturbingly bright-eyed when he steps through, but Will, covered in dirt and leaves, hair sticking up every which way, is shivering even though he’s layered in Mike’s hoodie and what looks like El’s robes. They only reach his knees, and his bare feet are filthy. 

El has dried blood under her nose and dirt on her hands, but looks fine everywhere else.

“_Guys_,” Lucas says, struggling to sit up without dumping Max out of the chair. “The _ hell_?”

Mike grins and says, “Will’s a werewolf!”

“Yeah, no duh,” Lucas says, rolling his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“F-fine,” Will says on a stuttering breath, arms crossed and hugging himself. He doesn’t look fine, but he also doesn’t look _ not _ fine. 

Steve figures if he was out eating bunnies he’d have more blood on his face, and he’d probably be puking.

“Does this mean we can be animagi?” Dustin says, urging Will to sit beside him on the couch by tugging on the hem of the hoodie.

Will gingerly takes a seat, like all his body parts are aching.

Mike shrugs and nods at the same time, eyes still glinting. “Should we ask McGonagall for help? This will be so cool.”

“No,” Will says, face blotched and eyes watery. “This isn’t _ cool_, Mike. Nothing about this is cool, okay?”

“But you didn’t hurt anybody,” Mike says, leaning forward, hands out. “You didn’t even snap at us, Will. It’s like you’re--”

“I took wolfsbane.” Will’s eyes are huge. 

“What? _ Why_?” Dustin says, flailing a hand.

“I’ve been taking it for months.” His hands twist together in his lap, his face scrunched up like he’s in physical pain. “The nurse gives it to me. Normally, I’m--” His chest heaves. “They have a room for me.”

Mike looks shocked for a full five seconds and then his face falls blank. “You didn’t tell us.”

The quiet stretches out into full-on uncomfortable territory, and Steve wonders if they’d notice if he slipped up to his room. He doesn’t move.

Finally, El says, “I knew.”

Mike’s mouth tightens as he looks from Will to her and then back again. “Right.”

“My mom knows,” Will says, voice small. “And Jonathon. As long as…” he looks narrow and hollow-eyed, “if I take the wolfsbane, I’m okay.” He doesn't seem completely sure about that, not at all, but he’s staring at Mike and Mike is now deliberately looking at the ceiling.

He says, “_Right_,” again, like he’s grinding the words out through his teeth.

Steve wants to be anywhere but there, but Dustin grabs his arm and digs his fingernails into the thin skin on the underside of his wrist. He hisses, “What the fuck, Steve,” like Steve had anything do to with this. Steve was pretty much unconscious when the whole thing went down, this is not his fault.

“Didn’t you _ want _ him to be a werewolf?” Steve whisper-shouts back, jabbing him in the side.

“I didn’t want him to lie about it!”

“You two aren’t helping,” Max says, frowning.

Steve has no idea why he’s still there. Whatever Mike and Will and Eleven have going on is hard to define on good days, and not Steve’s problem. If they’re not in immediate danger, Steve gets a pass.

He says, “I need to leave. And do things. And not actually be here.” 

*

The good part about being closer to Dustin than any of the other kids is that he misses the bulk of all the awkwardness that comes after Will’s werewolf confession. The bad part is… nope, that’s it. Steve doesn’t need any more drama.

He’s got his hands full with graduation and the wasteland that’s his future stretching out in front of him.

“What do you think you want to do after this?” Steve asks Robin. He’s lounging upside-down on the common room couch. Robin’s elbow is hard against his side as she leans on him.

“After what?” Robin says.

Steve waves a hand. All the blood is pooling in his head, but he doesn’t feel like moving. “N.E.W.T.S. Hogwarts.” Steve’s gonna have to move back home, probably, which sucks balls, but it’s not like he’s gonna get to play professional Quidditch, and, let’s face it, none of his N.E.W.T.S are gonna get him a lucrative Ministry job. He’s never going to hear the end of it from his dad.

Robin’s smart; she’s had a heavy concentration of Potions, Charms, and Herbology since O.W.L.S., but honestly, Steve hasn’t actually noticed her enjoying any of that. She likes playing the clarinet. And managing the Dueling Club. 

“Pomfrey wants me to intern at St. Mungo’s admin office. It sounds _ horrific _.” She pats his belly. “What about you, buckaroo?”

Steve’s been thinking about it. Like, _ idly_. He’s got a very modest inheritance from his grandmother that his parents haven’t let him touch yet. He’s got a public-facing personality that some might find charming. He’s got design sense, even though some business logistics are beyond him. Both Robin’s parents are accountants. 

“What do you think,” Steve says, “about ice cream?”

*

Steve’s not sure if there’s anything more terrifying than leaving Hogwarts for good.

This is why he’s hiding from the crowds, up on the parapets by the Astronomy tower. Anxious, adrift--restless. Kind of drunk. Fresh off a fight with his dad where neither of them raised their voices and yet Steve feels like shit anyway.

The flask of fire whiskey really isn't helping.

He’s missing the leaving feast. Dustin’s probably mad, or _ worried _, but his parents couldn’t stay for it, and Steve isn’t hungry. Instead, he gets the dying sun and a burn in his throat; his skin feels hot and clammy, the stone cool at his back.

Head tilted back, he doesn’t notice he has company until Billy’s looming right over him. He says, “You stole Tommy’s stash.”

Steve flips him off and takes a pull from the flask--Billy waits until he swallows to grab it from him.

He waggles it with a judgemental look, says, “Leaving me barely a swig, pretty boy? Not very nice,” then settles down next to him against the parapet wall.

“Sure,” Steve says dryly. “Join me.”

Billy bends a knee and rests a wrist on it, angling his body toward Steve. They’re oddly and companionably quiet for few blessed moments, and then Billy says, “So how does your shit work, Harrington?”

Steve squints over at him. The stars behind his head are already blurry smudges above the castle. “What shit?”

Billy gestures toward his chest, and _ oh _. 

“Oh.” He’d forgotten--how could he have forgotten?--and clutches the _ honors divination _ medallion hung over his robes with a harsh bark of laughter. His dad had _ really _loved that; all their friends and colleagues, witnessing what a weirdo Steve is.

Billy says, “You gonna read my fortune?” with his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, eyes gleaming. It would be gross on anyone other than Billy, and if Steve were soberer, that would probably piss him off.

Instead, Steve just shrugs. Fortunes are vague and dumb, but he could probably fudge something, and it’d probably be real. He can’t control anything else. He’s got a sensitivity to things that people have put _ lots _ of fucking emotion into--Dustin calls him an object empath, like that doesn’t sound stupid. He has no idea when something like that’s going to hit him, though, and it mostly sucks. “Maybe one day I’ll start spouting prophecies. Really make something of myself.” His lips feel thin and dry, pulling them into a wide, insincere grin.

Billy _ tsks_. Shifts his body so he can climb a hand up over Steve’s hip. Under the open robe, _ over _Steve’s dress pants.

Steve has just enough sense to say, “What are you doing, Hargrove?” but not enough to push him away.

“What do you think I’m doing?” Billy says. His touch is sure, but his eyes are sharp--staring at Steve’s face, like he’s looking for something. He walks his fingers over his shirt, calluses on the pads slowly pulling the fabric out of its loose tuck. 

His gaze doesn’t waver, and it makes Steve’s neck prickle. Makes sweat break out at the small of his back. Makes his breath catch in his throat. He _ really _doesn’t fucking like it.

“Are you _ serious _right now?” 

“What?” Billy says, smirking. “You gonna tell me you haven’t thought about it?” His hand has finally worked its way onto bare skin, and Steve doesn't know why he hasn’t stopped him yet. “After tomorrow we never have to see each other again. Aren’t you _ curious_?”

Billy has pretty lips and a terrible personality, and his thighs are firm and warm when he gracefully slips himself onto Steve’s lap.

His words are stupid. Kissing is a bad idea.

There’s a tightening in Steve’s chest that can only be blamed on alcohol.

Billy’s palm slides up from his belly to brush against a nipple.

“Anyone can find us,” Steve says weakly. He doesn’t move, though; he’s obviously already given in. Weirdly shaky, he leans up and meets Billy’s mouth halfway; knocks the flask over as his hands belatedly jerk up to curl into Billy’s shirt, the back of his neck. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s half hard until Billy grinds down on him with a bit-off groan; a huff of laughter following as he gropes for Steve’s neck. He feels the slip-slide of silk as Billy slowly winds Steve’s loose yellow and black tie around his palm, pulling it off him; tilts his face up more with a thumb on his chin. The hand on his chest curls into a fist, short nails scraping along Steve’s skin, making him shiver.

And then Billy’s sucking on the thin skin under his ear, lips sliding down his neck to bite at his collarbone, and Steve squirms to arch into it, arch into the cradle of Billy’s groin, panting.

“Still think this is a bad idea?” Billy’s voice is low and harsh.

Steve says, “_Yeah_,” but he also moves his hands to fumble open Billy’s shirt, smooths palms over Billy’s abs, _ absolutely not _ whispering that he wants to lick them while Billy fucking-- _ laughs_. Presses his face into Steve’s throat and breathes while his body shakes.

The smile, when he pulls back to kiss his mouth again, is clear and infectious, and makes Steve melt all the way down to the stone floor.

Lying there, he tries to catch his breath with Billy’s tongue in his mouth, and his hands at his zipper.

It’s impossible.

He jerks, hisses, when Billy’s fingers skim over the top of his dick.

God. This is so wrong.

He clutches at the open flaps of Billy’s shirt, closes his eyes and curves his back when Billy wraps a hand around him and pumps up.

“This is the _ worst_,” Steve says, voice high and thin, and Billy says, “Fucking… touch me, princess,” just as Steve’s hands figure out what buttons are again.

Billy isn’t wearing underwear. Like a maniac, he’s bare behind the teeth of his zipper. His dick falls into Steve’s hand, fingers automatically curling around it, and he has a long, slow _ what the fuck _ moment staring up into Billy’s eyes.

He’s not fully drunk. He could blame this on that, if he really wanted to, but he’s _ not_.

Billy’s eyes are navy in the deepening twilight, and apparently Steve becomes a romantic when someone’s touching his dick.

Billy has to move to get his pants down, so the zipper isn’t biting into his balls, and he jerks Steve’s dress slacks down far enough for him to kick them off one leg. And then Steve’s moment of clarity is gone with spit and the slippery slide of Billy’s cock into the groove of his hip, the widening of his thighs, the hook of his left leg around his ass as he pushes his own hardness up next to Billy’s.

He’s such a fucking dumbass, but it doesn’t stop him from spilling all over their bellies minutes or hours later, from groaning, fingers biting into Billy’s back, when Billy comes all over him, too. Jesus.

For a quiet moment, Billy’s head is bent low, shoulders expanding on every inhale. There are fine tremors winding their way through Steve’s body.

The cooling pool of come on him is gross, though, and he drops his leg off of Billy and pushes at his stomach to get him to move, heart pounding. 

When Billy rolls off of him, he scrambles into his pants and makes a face at the mess running down his sides. 

“Oh god.” Steve both can and can’t believe that just happened. 

Billy huffs and says, “That was… different,” despite the fact that he fucking started this whole thing.

Steve’s filthy. He hits Billy in the arm and can’t breathe right and sex is _ fine_, okay, but dry humping Billy Hargrove on the astronomy tower is never going to be one of his top five life moments. Christ.

Billy says, “You’re alright, Harrington,” and it’s a testament to Steve’s mental state that he has no idea if he’s being sincere or not. If he means the sex was alright, or if he’s checking to see if Steve’s okay, or if he just thinks Steve's _ cool _in general now.

He rubs hands over his face and tries not to panic.

This is fine. He can deal with this. And then he’ll never have to deal with Billy again.

When he looks over at Billy, though, with his curls mussed and his lips red and the parapet lamplight making all his bare skin gold, Steve’s chest feels like it’s caving in. He says, voice nearly a croak, “I have to go.”

Billy’s eyes narrow. He says, “Sure, Steve,” and his name sounds wrong, but Steve doesn’t stay around to figure out why.

He scrambles to his feet, tugging his robes around his ruined clothes, and wonders why it always feels like he’s running away.

  
  


3.

A failure of logistics, and also the fact that Steve’s parents won’t let him touch his inheritance until he’s either a) proven himself in the workforce or b) hit twenty-five, have led him to this: a summer spent languishing in the Ministry archives.

It’s musty, dark and lonely. His one bright spot is that Robin apparates in from St. Mungo’s most days for lunch. It’s pretty much his only daily contact with the outside world, given that his boss is an apparition that died ten years ago and just refuses to give up his post. There’s one other employee--a giant dude named Kevin who hates his guts--and Steve spends his days sorting requests and reshelving.

It’s fucking boring. And tedious. Mostly because Steve’s supposed to file with his wand, but he’s _ crap _at it, and things get fucked up unless he just does it all by hand. He can alphabetize fine, he just can’t reliably move stuff with magic. He can unreliably move stuff, but mostly that makes for more work and longer, unpaid hours.

Kevin side-eyes him with judgement, but his boss doesn’t seem to notice.

Honestly, Steve didn’t figure that life after Hogwarts would be glamorous, but he also didn’t figure that he’d be renting a crappy three-bedroom flat with a couple strangers and a weird cat he rescued, working a deadend job and relying on Robin Buckley for his social life.

The most exciting thing to happen to his days has been running into Nancy as she interns for the _ Daily Prophet_, and by exciting he means excruciatingly awkward. Her and Jonathan are getting _ married_.

God, he misses his kids.

He gets owls from Dustin and Eleven and even Will, occasionally, who’s apparently still fighting with Mike. It makes him glad he’s not there dealing with all their shit, and also upset about it at the same time.

He’s cut off from the world, deep in the dark depths of the Ministry; he’s too pale, he knows, and the bright light of day on the weekends is starting to make him feel like a vampire.

But the worst part about dealing with the archives is his--_ fucking Dustin _ \--object empathy. He’d _ told _his dad it was a bad idea to pull these particular strings, to get him this sucky out-of-the-way job from high in his barrister’s office, but his dad took it as some kind of challenge. Like if Steve can last down here without having an “episode”--air quotes provided--he can tell his cronies that Steve’s divination affinity was all a mistake. 

And Steve may think his _ object empathy _ is stupid and nearly useless, but it’s magic, and he doesn’t understand how any kind of magic can actually be a fucking taint to his bloodline or whatever. The centaurs are an intelligent and majestic race, so, you know. It’s not actually just a crock of shit.

It’s inevitable, really, and not at all surprising when it happens, except for maybe the fact that it took two months. They’re well into July when Steve touches a scroll--green ink, _ confession _, tied up in black string, edges well-preserved--and the whole room whites out. He can feel his limbs freeze up but all he can See is:

_ Crying. Young face, big brown, red-rimmed eyes, pupils wide with something close to terror... _

It lasts only seconds, he thinks, and then Kevin is looming over him with a scowl and the scroll and Steve’s hand is empty but curled up, tense, like it’s still there.

“You’re a freaking Divining Adept,” Kevin says. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

*

They don’t fire him right away. They can’t fire him for being whatever the hell he is, that’s discrimination, but they do make him use his wand, and that does make him fuck up, and eventually Steve’s boss dithers in front of him, wringing transluscent hands over the mess he’d accidentally made, and _ that _makes Kevin fire him.

He says, “I’m sorry, man,” like he really means it, but also like he’s kind of relieved.

It’s almost August. He has just enough money to pay for next month’s rent if he doesn’t want to eat.

It’s still midmorning when he steps out of the busy halls of the Ministry building and into the bright summer sunlight. There are distant clouds threatening rain, but right then Steve digs out sunglasses, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and tries not to look as dejected as he feels.

He can turn this around. Right.

*

Robin slides into the booth across from him and says, “So why did you want to meet--Jesus, Steve.”

Steve hastily gulps the rest of his beer, slams the glass down with a wince. “I got fired.”

“No, shit?” Robin says, like she’s actually concerned, and that’s… so nice. Robin’s a good friend.

“You’re a good friend,” Steve says, and gives up trying to reach out and touch her hair only because he knocks over some cups instead, and he needs to catch them before they roll off the table and the waitress starts glaring at him again.

Robin slaps down his hands to keep them still and says, “What happened?”

Steve shrugs. “Some of the E files got a little… exploded.”

“A little?” Robin’s mouth twitches.

Steve groans and buries his face in his arms. “I need more to drink.” He’s drunk but he could be _ drunker_. He probably just spent at least a quarter of his rent money on alcohol, he might as well go full hog.

“You need something to eat,” Robin says, and orders fries.

Honestly, it’s not super bad that he got fired. He didn’t really like the job anyway, right? But on the other hand, it was money, and now there’s no way he can convince his dad that he’s responsible enough to manage his inheritance. 

“I just want… I want to make people _ happy _, you know?” He doesn’t like all this drama. He likes simple things, like Billy Hargrove’s abs and fuzzy, sweet peaches. Baby horses and crup kits and ice cream. “What am I gonna do?”

Robin wrinkles her nose. “Well, first you’re going to stop drinking,” she says. “And then you’re going to break your lease and move in with me and Heather--”

“_Why _ are you living with Holloway again?” 

“Shut up.” Robin flicks the tip of his nose. “I’m gonna help you get back on your feet, dingus.”

“I’m not a charity case.” The whole reason he didn’t move in with Robin to begin with was because he couldn’t afford it, and Heather refused to live in squalor. 

“You’re totally a charity case,” Robin says. “But you’re _ also _my best friend. So shut the fuck up and move in with me.”

*

It’s not that Steve hates Heather Holloway. Well, it could be that he hates Heather Holloway. He really hopes it isn’t that he’s jealous, because Robin deserves to be happy, even if it’s with a spoiled princess who sneers every time she sees him.

They _ used _to be sort-of friends, back when Steve was still hanging out with Tommy H and Carol and Tammy, before the douchebag emergence of Billy, and the whole thing where he adopted a bunch of kids and became a mom.

It’s raining when he moves in. It’s actually been raining for days on end, so it’s not like he could have picked a better day. Still… it seems like a bad omen.

The only times he’s seen Heather lately is when they’re all out to dinner; put together, jewelry and hair gleaming, looking like a peacock next to Robin’s everyday mess. She makes him feel like a worm most days, but he’s okay with it because she clearly adores Robin however which way she’s presented, absently knotted hair and all.

Now, as Steve hauls in a stack of boxes that he’s successfully charmed light, thanks very much, she ignores him from an overstuffed couch, hair in braids, gray sweats rolled up to her knees and wearing the sweater he gave Robin three years ago. The sleeves are unraveling at the cuffs, and there’s rip at the collar. It makes her look almost normal, even though she still narrows her eyes meanly at him when she catches him staring.

She might be upset that he’s taking their extra bedroom, but there wasn’t much in there except a mattress and a half-empty dresser.

All she says to him, though, is a cryptic, “Don’t lock your door,” which immediately makes Steve want to lock his door.

Steve has to bring the weird cat with him, because it’s not like any of his other loser roommates was taking care of it. WC has too-large paws and fangs, spots like a leopard, and tufts coming off his ears that make him look like an idiot. He cries like a human baby and sleeps under Steve’s bed. He’s the size of a small child, and Helios’ best friend.

There’s a small porch off the living room that’s charmed warm for Heather’s owl, Titus, and Helios will probably enjoy it much better than roosting in the corner of Steve’s room. 

The kitchen is larger than it looks on the outside, there are auto-filling coffee mugs in the cabinets, and the oddly placed hearth in the living room is connected to the Floo network.

So, all in all, living with Robin and Heather is a much better deal than he had before.

*

Three days after moving in with Robin and Heather, it’s still raining. Steve doesn’t do anything but drink coffee in his underwear and read a muggle ice cream maker manual out loud to Helios and WC in the hopes that that’ll make it easier to understand. It’s a fucking ice cream maker. Why do muggles have to make everything so hard?

“This is stupid,” he says to WC.

WC looks up from cleaning a massive paw and blinks at him. If he isn’t wailing like a baby, he’s creepily too-quiet, and Steve thinks he does it on purpose to fuck with him.

What he really wants to figure out, though, beyond the actual making of ice cream, is how to make it the _ perfect experience _ for everyone. The pinnacle of food enjoyment. 

He needs a hat.

After a whirlwind search, the only hats they have in the entire flat seem to be in Heather’s side of the bedroom closet. His fingers skim past rim after rim without touching. Finally, he grabs a sailor hat, because it’s _ funny_, and he doesn’t think Heather can possibly defend owning it. He gets a quick flash of smoke and glitter, of Robin smiling softly. It’s there and gone, though, a brief press of contentedness that stays even as he faintly hears Robin’s voice say, _ you look so fucking stupid _ as he blinks the vision out of his eyes.

He takes the stupid hat, and sits in the middle of the coffee table.

_ Ice cream_, he thinks.

Like the sorting hat, only less invasive.

Like a mood ring, only something that actually works.

By the time Robin comes home from work, he’s managed to get it to shout obscenities when he puts it on his head. He’s pretty sure it’s mad at him for almost setting it on fire.

Robin says, “You stole that from Heather, she’s gonna...” then makes a face and shrugs and says, “Eh.”

The hat yells, “Fuck you,” and both Robin’s eyebrows go up.

“What exactly are you doing with that, Steven?” she says.

“Okay, so you know how I’m awful at charms,” Steve says, tugging the hat off and tossing it back onto the coffee table. 

Robin nods. “And Arithmancy.”

Steve grimaces, “Yeah, but--”

“And Transfiguration.”

“_Sure_, but--”

“And Herbology, which is weird, considering most of the time it was just weeding.” She grins at him very wide.

“You’re an asshole,” Steve says sourly. “Are you done?”

Robin mines zipping her mouth shut and then does jazz hands.

Steve sighs. He says, “I’m trying to make it tell me what kind of ice cream I’m in the mood for.”

Robin scrunches her nose up, lips still pressed together.

Steve says, “It’s like a mood ring for your head. To make you happy. Only I’m pretty sure this hat only wants to yell at me for making it sentient.”

Robin bites her lip and shifts impatiently on her feet. Her cheeks are puffed up.

Slumping lower in the couch, Steve waves her in, resigned to be made fun of.

Her breath rushes out on a laugh and she says, “That sounds dumb, and also stupidly complicated.” She sweeps the hat off the table and places it on her head like someone who hasn’t had their hair gummed by an angry sailor cap before.

Robin just says, “Huh,” though. The hat mumbles something Steve can’t hear, and then Robin laughs and nods. She takes it off, spins it on a finger. She says, “Not half bad, Steve. I think you’re gonna have to bargain with it now, though.”

“I don’t want to--” Steve cuts himself off, exasperated. He could try _ again_, with another of Heather’s hats, but he doesn’t think that’d be healthy or wise. “_Anyway_,” he says. “What’s for dinner?”

Robin pats him on the head. “I’ll leave you some money for a pizza. Heather and I are going out.”

*

Steve eats pizza, and tries not to sulk about it. He rinses off the grease and despair in the shower and falls asleep with the ice cream maker manual open on his chest and WC draped over his shins.

He startles groggily some indeterminate time later at a dip in the bed that he initially thinks is WC, except his legs are still numb from WC’s massive weight.

Someone says, “Shove over,” and it’s male, and it’s familiar, and the fact that Steve can’t fucking move makes him panic a little.

He tries to kick WC off of him, and WC just rolls onto his side.

“What the fuck, Hargrove,” Steve says, heart pounding. He manages to wriggle his legs out from under WC and then pushes at him until he wails and flings himself off the bed like a dramatic baby.

“Shove _ over_,” Billy says again, like this is normal, like they share beds all the time now, after the whole Shrewsbury thing.

Steve gropes for his wand, illuminating the room in a dull glow. Billy flinches at the flare of light, but doesn’t cover his eyes fast enough to keep Steve from seeing the bruise. “Shit, what happened?” He curls his fingers into the covers to keep from reaching out. Billy smells like smoke and beer and bad decisions. “Did you get into a fight?”

“Should’ve seen the other guy,” Billy says, voice muffled, burying his head under Steve’s spare pillow.

Steve’s been the other guy. He can imagine that just fine. He stares at the tense, bare length of BIlly’s back and says, “Want me to heal it?”

Billy huffs a laugh. “Like you could heal anything.”

“I could wake up Robin and Heather?” Steve says, and Billy hunches his shoulders with a groan.

He says, “_Fine_,” and rolls over.

Steve lights the lamp on his bedside table, making the room even brighter. 

The bruise around his eye is still mostly red and swollen, and there’s a telltale crust of blood on his upper lip. It doesn’t actually look much better after Steve casts pain draining charm, but the slight sigh of relief from Billy is at least a little cheering. He’s seen Billy _ worse _, is the thing, because Billy was banned from Hogsmeade more times than Steve can remember over the years for fighting, but BIlly’s never crawled into his bed before, wounded, and he’s never let Steve touch his chin to hold him still, and he’s never slumped his shoulders like that, like he’s exhausted and not afraid to let Steve see.

It’s disconcerting.

Steve grits his teeth and ignores the warmth pooling in his belly.

He does his best with a basic healing spell--it doesn’t look as bad, at least, and most of the swelling is down by the time he tucks his wand back under his pillow. He says, “Are you sleeping here?”

Billy cracks a wide yawn, wriggles under the covers, and flips Steve’s blankets up to his chin. “What do you think, princess?”

Ugh. 

With the lights off, he thinks it’ll be hard to sleep. Hard to shut off his brain with Billy’s breathing, slow and heavy, near his ear. Hard to ignore all the hot places they’re touching in the small bed. It isn't.

*

The next morning, Billy’s still asleep when Steve rolls out of bed. He tugs on pants and a ratty cardigan over his t-shirt and pulls the door shut quietly behind him when he goes out into the hall.

In the kitchen, Heather’s humming over frying eggs in an oversized sweatshirt, bare feet stacked on top of each other as she leans into the counter. Robin is smiling dreamily at her, and Steve grabs Robin’s wrist and tugs her to a corner of the room to hiss, “Why didn’t you tell me Hargrove crashes here sometimes?”

Robin rolls her eyes. “C’mon. I didn’t tell you because I know you get weird about Billy.”

“I don’t get weird about Billy!” He never even talks about Billy. He hasn’t seen Billy since they left Hogwarts, and he’s never given one thought about what he was doing with his life. Really.

“You _ totally _ get weird about Billy.” She eyes him like this is a case in point, which it so _ isn’t_, he’s allowed to be a little miffed at Billy _ crawling into bed with him_. “Even more weird than you get about Nancy Wheeler, and you get,” she mimes an explosion with her fingers, “super weird about her.”

“What the fuck is this?” Billy’s voice is loud from the other room.

Steve makes a high-pitched squeaky noise and tightens his hand around Robin’s wrist as she smirks and mouths, _ weird_.

When Billy makes his way into the kitchen, he’s shirtless in a pair of boxer briefs. Steve hadn’t let himself look that morning, both squished up in that full bed, but Billy seems to have filled out even more in the months they’ve left Hogwarts, sporting an unreal sixpack, biceps the size of his head, his muscles seem to have muscles, and not even the patchy scruff all over his face and the half-healed bruise decorating his eye can deter from it. It’s unfair, given that Steve is fish-belly pale and is starting to get a little paunch without all the daily quidditch practices.

And Billy’s holding the stupid sailor hat.

Heather looks over her shoulder and says, “Harrington stole that.”

Billy’s eyebrows go up. “Okay,” he says, like he thinks Steve is crazy. “Why?”

Robin grins around a piece of toast. “Put it on,” she says.

“_Don’t_.” Steve makes a grab for it, but Billy manages to get it out of his reach even though Steve’s taller than him. It could have something to do with Steve’s reluctance to touch Billy’s bare skin.

“Why?” Billy says again, this time with a mocking grin and a vicious twinkle in his eyes.

“C’_mon_, Hargrove,” Steve says, but it’s half-hearted--he’s already resigned.

Billy puts it on his head.

He immediately takes it off again, and tosses it onto the center of the kitchen table with a disgruntled wrinkle of his nose. “What the fuck, Harrington?”

“It’s a work in progress,” Steve says with a sigh. Goddamnit.

“All right, losers,” Heather says, turning around and brandishing the frying pan almost threateningly. “Breakfast’s up.”

*

“Do you want help?”

Steve startles out of a zone, pulled away from the hat he’s been blindly staring at for Merlin knows how long, and looks up at Billy.

Billy, who’s got his hip cocked and his arms crossed kind of defensively. He’s got a shirt on now, at least, but it’s a blue paisley monstrosity that would look stupid on anyone else, and seems like it’s missing several buttons on purpose.

“Huh?” Steve says.

Billy jerks his head toward the sailor hat, but doesn’t repeat himself.

Steve sort of flails his arms in a shrug and thinks, _ kill me now_. The thing is, he can’t actually mooch off Robin forever, and right now his choices are crawling home to his parents and admitting he can’t hack it on his own, or, you know--letting Billy help. Ugh.

“Knock yourself out,” he says.

With more grace than should be allowed in such a solid body, Billy drops down next to him on the couch, sprawls his legs open, and stares at the hat. After a long, silent moment, he says, “So what the fuck do you actually want it to do?”

Steve rubs his hands over his face and through his hair. He’s so freaking tired, but he hasn’t even done anything all day. The last thing he wants to do is explain his whole muggle ice cream thing to Billy Hargrove, but he does it anyway.

Billy says, with a hefty skeptical squint, “So you want to compete with Fortescue’s?”

“Uh, no.” He doesn’t think so. He wasn’t really thinking of the where yet, but he doubts he could ever afford to lease a place in Diagon Alley, even if his parents have a sudden change of heart and just hand over his trust.

“I mean. You’re not thinking somewhere muggle, right?” Billy leans forward, elbows on his thighs. “Aunt Charlotte thinks you’re a fucking weirdo.”

“Aunt Charlotte loves me,” Steve says lightly, highly conscious of the fact that Billy hasn’t even acknowledged the whole mom funeral trip since the silently awkward, terrible graveside service, _ shit_, over five fucking months ago.

“Plus,” Billy says, ignoring him, “you want a talking hat. That shit won’t fly with the Ministry.”

“Yeah, no duh,” Steve says, dangerously close to jabbing Billy in the side with his elbow. He stops himself mid-move, flutters his hands through the air, and says, “I’m thinking, you know, hand-churned, simple, with a, uh. Mood hat.”

“Mood hat,” Billy repeats flatly. 

This might just be the longest conversation Steve’s ever had with Billy that didn’t include fists or making out. It makes his skin itch a little, but he’s also got a ball of warmth pressing on the top of his chest that makes him want to smile. Crap.

He nods, stares resolutely at the hat. “Hogsmeade,” he says on a whim. “If I can afford it.” He can’t afford _ anything_, though.

He can feel Billy looking at him now, instead of the hat, and his face heats.

But Billy just says, “Sure,” and the word is so bland, so lacking in anything damning, that Steve glances over at him.

It’s a mistake, of course.

He catches Billy rolling up his sleeves, mouth pursed. His lips are too red, like he’s been biting at them, and his profile looks determined. He draws his wand out, flips it through his fingers like a drumstick.

All of this is a mistake.

Steve says, “Wait, Har--”

“I kind of like the attitude,” Billy says, flashing Steve a quick grin. “You did a good job on the personality, princess, you just gotta get it to ask the right questions.”

“_Please-- _”

“It’s okay.” Billy grasps the wrist of the hand Steve thrusts out, fingers surprisingly gentle. His voice is husky on, “Let me take care of this.”

Steve thinks, numbly: he’s going to owe Billy for this. There’s been very little give and take in their… relationship in the past. There’s stuff they do for each other, and it’s mostly stuff they ignore, and Steve thinks of Billy’s face, on that graduation night, when Steve had freaked the fuck out and ran. They should be even, but no one is ever keeping score.

This is something far more tangible, and stupid, and, like, genuinely helpful. Billy is being nice, and maybe it’s for some twisted, fucked up reason, Steve isn’t sure, but anyway you look at this, if it works, it’s gonna be on Billy.

And Steve can absolutely tell that Billy enjoys knowing that too.

*

Something Steve never bothered to know about Billy, apparently: he’s a planner. He understands how Arithmancy fits in with magical theory. He’s got a pile of scrolls to his right, and a pile of ashes to his left. He gets a little scrunched up v between his eyebrows when he’s concentrating. He _ loves _a problem he needs to work to figure out.

“Why do you need all these notes to figure out how to fix a sailor hat?” Steve asks, flipping through scroll after scroll of tiny numbers and diagrams. He squints at it so hard his brain hurts.

Billy swipes them out of his hands and places them neatly back on the table without looking at him. He says, “Hands to yourself, Harrington,” and, “You need this to actually work, right?” and Steve sighs and slinks out of the room to get something to eat.

He fussily arranges cookies on a plate that Billy won’t even notice, then downs a full glass of water at the sink and stares at his reflection in the window pane. He’s a blurry pale mess in the rainy gloom, droplets beaded up on the glass.

He curls his fingers in the edge of the counter and wonders if all of this is worth it. He hasn’t even figured out the stupid fucking ice cream maker yet.

It’s in a box in the corner of the room, mocking him.

Honestly, how hard can it fucking be?

Grabbing the box, he scoots WC out of his sprawl on top of the kitchen table--he’s nearly the same size of it, and he knows he’s not really allowed to be up there, but all he does is roll over onto his back and folds his paws up and gives Steve an upside-down cat-smile. It shouldn’t look that endearing with the fangs, but Steve rubs at his belly anyway.

“You’re a menace,” he says, but he manages to unpack the box around him, and WC purrs so loud the entire table vibrates.

An hour later, he’s got the thing in pieces, cat hair everywhere, and no idea where to find recipes. Apparently you need recipes to make ice cream. He needs books or, like, an old grandma.

He slips past a muttering Billy and finds Helios, the traitor, snuggled up with Heather’s owl on the balcony-slash-owlry, and uses a can of tuna to coax her into flying a note to Dustin.

Dustin is Very Good at potions. Will is better, but Will’s got a lot on his plate still, and also Steve really doesn’t want to re-enter the Werewolf Drama, so his best bet is Henderson.

Dustin says, “You’re lucky I still have a week left of summer break. You don’t visit, you don’t owl. You know mom’s getting a complex, right?” as he sweeps in the door to the apartment later that afternoon. “And since when are you living with Robin and Holloway?”

There’s a lot that Steve’s been avoiding telling him. He feels bad about it for a hot second, but on the other hand, everything he tells Dustin becomes the Party’s business, and he’s been putting off dealing with that, too.

Dustin eyes go huge when he spots Billy in the living room. “What the hell, Steve?” he hisses.

“I’m having problems right now, Henderson,” Steve says, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Don’t judge me.”

“I’m gonna judge you so hard, Steven.” Dustin wags a finger in his face--since when did he get so freaking tall? “Is Hargrove living here too?”

“Uh.” Steve isn’t exactly sure. He doesn’t even know what Billy does for a living. If anything.

Billy gives them a look over the back of the couch, like he can read Steve’s mind. “I’m training in the MLE,” he says, and the black of his eye mostly looks like exhausted shadows now. “I’m on the last shift this week, street division, so I haven’t had a lot of sleep and I’m _ this close _ to setting this hat on fire, so shut the fuck up, both of you, and let me concentrate.”

Oh. Steve blinks a lot, staring at the back of Billy’s head as he hunches back down. He should definitely be sleeping, and not working on his asshole sentient hat. That can’t be good for either of them, really.

Dustin says in a stage whisper, “Should I cast a containment spell? For when he inevitably blows us all up?”

Billy’s shoulders go up around his ears, but he doesn’t turn around again.

Steve mouths, _ maybe_, at him and tugs him silently off to the kitchen.

*

Billy flips the cap onto the kitchen table as it squawks in protest--Steve hears a muffled, _ how dare you, sir, _ which is ten times more civil than it was yesterday, at least.

“You owe me for this, Harrington,” Billy says.

Steve didn’t expect Billy to call him on that out loud, or so soon. He figured he’d go for something much more subtle and smug, play into some kind of long game. He says, “I’ll buy you dinner,” and he doesn’t know whether he hopes Billy will say yes or no.

Billy looks at him weird. “You don’t want to try it out first?”

Uh, well. “Not really?” Steve trusts him. Kind of. He’s pretty sure Billy wouldn’t say he was done if he wasn’t done--a pride thing, even if it’s just to one-up Steve.

Dustin says, “I want pizza, can we get pizza?”

Billy flicks his forehead. “You’re not invited, twerp.”

Dustin says, “But! I made ice cream!” spreading his hands out to encompass the churner they finally managed to figure out. There’s an extra piece sitting on the table that they both wordlessly decided to ignore.

Also, Steve’s not sure they can qualify the milk soup they made as ice cream.

“Come on,” Steve says to Dustin, “we’ll drop you off at the Apparition point around the corner.”

“I need a full steak dinner,” Billy says, sounding tired but determined. He’s got red-rimmed eyes and straggly hair and Steve has to fight off the urge to wrap him in a blanket and make him go to bed. “Potatoes, mushrooms. Wine.”

“Oh, _ wine_,” Steve says, making a face and mentally calculating how much this is gonna set him back. He has maybe three galleons in coat pocket, but sometimes Tom at the Leaky lets him put stuff on a tab. He’s not sure if they can get a full steak dinner there, but Billy’s gonna have to deal.

Dustin wrinkles his nose but agrees to go home on the condition that Steve makes it to Sunday dinner. “Mom’s going to show up here with a casserole if you don’t,” he says, letting Steve push him out the door. “Casserole and guilt, Steve! It’s her specialty!”

“I’ll be there,” Steve says.

Billy huffs, but he’s staring at him blankly when Steve glances at him.

Dustin squints a little. “Are you angling for an invite, Hargrove?”

“No.” The blank look fades into soft alarm.

“Because I can give you one.” It sounds like a threat. Steve has to bite his cheek to keep from laughing.

The soft alarm sharpens, complete with wide eyes, and Billy manages, “No. Thank you.” 

Manners look so weird on Billy when he’s not trying to charm professors, Hogsmeade shopkeepers and visiting adults on Parents’ Day. Steve doesn’t know if he should find that funny or sad.

They should, however, get out of there before Robin or Heather makes it back from work. “Dinner,” he reminds Billy, then points a finger at Dustin. “Home.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dustin rolls his eyes and steps out into the hallway, stuffing his hands into his pockets, waiting for Steve to lock the door behind them. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Cold soup,” Steve says. “Thick sugar milk. We hardly figured anything out at all.”

“We just need to build up our arm muscles!”

“I’m gonna be gracious here,” Billy says. “But only because I’m starving, and I’ve got another shift starting at midnight.”

Steve _ thinks _ there’s a real joke in there somewhere, a genuine smile hidden at the corner of Billy’s mouth. It’s like being exhausted has sloughed off Billy’s abrasive edges. He’s not sure what to do with that, but he hopes it lasts through dinner.

  
  


4.

“I don’t want to alarm you,” Robin says, a big, toothy grin belying her words, “but are you _ dating _ Hargrove?”

Steve opens his mouth to say _ fuck no_, but stops himself. Is he? 

Billy hasn’t stayed over at Robin and Heather’s since that one night, but he’s showed up a lot during the day; at first just to bum around, apparently, and then to bug Steve into eating various meals with him. He played a somewhat helpful part getting Steve a part time job at a music store in Diagon Alley. It’s _ crummy _, really, but Steve likes his coworkers and it gives him enough cash to buy food. So. He doesn’t think whatever they’re doing qualifies as dating. More.. hostile kind-of friends that try not to yell at each other too much in public. 

Heather slides into the seat next to Robin with two beers, and Robin leans into her side. Her eyebrows go up and up as Billy sits next to Steve and says, “Here you go. One candy apple special for the princess.”

The drink is large and electric blue, and Steve knows better by now not to mention how he’d asked for a pint. There’s a buzz under his fingertips when he picks up the drink, like static, and he mouths _ cheers _to Tom behind the bar, who’s looking over at their booth with a bemused expression.

It tastes like pure sugar and is definitely too sweet, but this is a thing: Billy tries to get a rise out of Steve, and he gets really fucking pissed off when he can’t manage it. Ever since Steve’s figured this out, life has been fantastic. “Jokes on you, Hargrove,” Steve says, smacking his lips. “It’s delicious.”

Billy narrows his eyes and takes a pull of his beer, looking more calculating than mad. He says, “Aunt Charlotte says she’ll talk to May for us about her ice cream recipes. If you want to hike out to Shrewsbury again, that is.”

Steve says, “It’s nearly Christmas.” Saying it out loud makes it sound even worse. It’s been months since Billy fixed his sailor hat. 

“So?” Billy says, a belligerent curve to his jaw. “Did you have other plans?”

Robin, when Steve dares to glance at her, has her mouth covered, half her face buried in Heather’s hair. She’s definitely laughing at him. Heather’s feigning boredom, mouth soft, but her eyes fixed and unblinking.

Steve wants to say, _ are you asking me to go home with you for Christmas? _but if Billy doesn’t want to face this head on, neither does he.

The sad fact is that Steve never has any plans for Christmas. They both know this. Holidays at Hogwarts had them both wandering the echoing emptiness of the halls, getting cheered by professors who wanted to be there even less than them. He _ could _ go home, but probably no one will be there. He’d been planning on bumming around the apartment, eating his weight in cheese, and listening to the holiday festival on the WWN. Most likely while drunk out of his mind.

He’s not exactly sure if going home with Billy will be much better.

“I told Maisy I’d work until noon Christmas Eve,” Steve says instead of yes. 

Billy stares into his beer and shrugs. “So we’ll leave afterwards.”

Steve feels like his face is on fire. He wishes they were having this conversation anywhere else but in front of Robin, but on the other hand… it’d probably be even more awkward if they were alone.

He drains the rest of his candy apple special, and the burn of the settled liquor makes him cough and wheeze. 

Billy slaps him on the back, making him cough _ harder_, and then leaves his hand there, large and warm, even after Steve’s caught his breath.

*

Steve gets mugged five days before Christmas. 

He’s got his hands full of packages, mostly cheap little wrapped boxes of chocolates, and he’s left his wand all the way down in his boot, like usual. The lamplight is bright, but the streets of Diagon Alley are nearly deserted this late. At first, Steve doesn’t register what’s happening: he looks like an ordinary guy. No robes, but that isn’t really a surprise, these days. Threadbare jeans, a dark hoodie. The wand shakes a little, held up high in front of the man’s body, and the blade held lower in his other hand glints a menacing silver as it catches the light. There’s nothing physically obscuring his face, like a mask, but Steve can’t make out any details anyhow.

It’s over within seconds. Steve doesn’t hesitate to hand over his packages, empty out his measly pockets, and is only a little sad to see the braided leather watch his father gave him--when he was eleven and still proud of him--sliced off his wrist when Steve fumbles with the clasps.

It’s _ stupid_, because nobody gets mugged in Diagon Alley outside of the dark passages of Knockturn. Steve stands there dumbly, watching the wizard skid around the corner of a building and disappear. He says, “What the fuck?” arms still out, like he’s clutching invisible bags. And under the utter craziness of it all, there’s a small ball of fear, and an even smaller ball of despair--he’s never going to be able to afford new presents.

“Are you all right, dearie?”

Steve turns his head almost mechanically, taking in the little old witch who’s closing up her herb shop and greenhouse.

“Uh,” Steve says. “I’m not sure.”

Small sharp eyes take in his stance and she says, matter-of-factly, “You’re bleeding.”

He feels wet warmth on his wrist then, and his arms jerk and he gingerly slides fingertips over the soft skin that was under his watch, coming away a bright shiny red. “Shit. Um, sorry.” Crap. “I don’t think it’s very deep.”

“Come on, come on,” the woman says, unlocking her door, “inside with you. We’ll call the police.”

“Please don’t,” Steve says, for no reason at all--they _ should _ call the MLE. The man could rob anyone else, and it would be partially Steve’s fault for not reporting it. He might need a healer.

The woman arches a bright white eyebrow at him and tells him to sit.

He presses a palm on his arm, and then that’s replaced by a clean white linen. He’s vaguely aware of the fire flaring up in the fireplace, and then raised voices, and then a man in blue and gold robes is standing in front of him, holding a small notebook and frowning.

“Name,” he says.

Steve blinks up at him. “Sorry?”

“Your name,” the officer says again, slower, like Steve is an idiot.

Steve’s gaze darts around the room, taking in his surroundings for the first time. It’s warm, humid, and nearly every surface is covered in flourishing green plants. It smells like thyme and rosemary and mint, and Steve doesn’t relax until he spots Billy in the corner, leaning casually against the brick, a short blue cape draped over his shoulders and a blue and gold cap mashing down his hair.

He meets Steve’s eyes, but doesn’t say anything.

Steve turns back to the officer in front of him and says, “Steve Harrington.”

“Can you tell us what happened, Mr. Harrington?” He _ could_, maybe, talk to Steve in an even more condescending tone, but it would be hard to manage.

Steve clears his throat. “I think I got mugged.”

“You _ think_?” Billy says, straightening up a fraction.

The officer throws Billy a small look, but turns back to Steve with a wooden smile, all teeth and no sincerity. “Are you sure?”

Steve looks down at the red seeping through the shop owner’s fine white cloth and says, “Yes.”

It’s not, Steve thinks later, that the officer doesn’t believe him. It’s that the officer clearly thinks a young healthy wizard probably _ shouldn’t _ have been mugged. Especially in the bright, cheery lights of Diagon Alley during Christmas. Steve absolutely knows that’s not his fault, the shop owner, from her disgruntled looks and audible huffs, thinks it’s not is fault, but Billy is quiet, and the MLE officer is rude, and Steve’s arm is starting to really hurt.

“Look,” Steve says, interrupting the officer’s diatribe on vigilance, and disbelief that Steve can’t think of a single helpful description beyond dirty jeans and a nervous grip, “do you think I could, uh, maybe get a paramedic?”

Billy says, “I can go flag one, Branson.” 

Officer Branson waves him off dismissively.

Steve’s blood is warm under his palm. He’s lightheaded, but he’s not sure if it’s from blood loss--it’s not dripping, at least--or shock.

He watches Billy shrug, settle back against the wall, and stare at Steve like they didn’t just have drinks two nights ago, like he isn’t planning on bringing him home for Christmas dinner. Like he doesn’t stand next to him with their shoulders touching when they sneak out for street vendor churros, and laugh at Steve over counting out muggle money. Like they don’t make ice cream together, poring over recipes, making big enough messes that even Robin complains. 

Billy’s placidly watching him get chewed out by a _ terrible _ cop, like they don’t mean anything to each other at all. And speaking of… why do that, when he could be chewed out by an excellent one.

Steve turns to the shopkeeper in the middle of Branson’s rant and says, “Ms. Bloom,”--he’s ninety percent certain that’s how she introduced herself--”would you mind fire calling Chief Hopper?”

Branson sputters. “You can’t--”

“Tell him it’s for me.”

Billy says, “Harring--” but cuts himself off with Steve’s glare. 

Branson flips his notebook closed. “Fine,” he says, and starts for the door.

Billy hesitates. “Should we wait here for--”

“No. Let’s go, Hargrove.” Branson is tall, imposing, and a jerk.

Billy doesn’t even look at Steve as he follows him out the door.

*

Hopper isn’t really any nicer to Steve, but his brusqueness badly covers his concern, and Steve feels a little less like a dumbass.

He heals Steve himself, after prodding the wound with a barely held back cluck of his tongue, and ruffles Steve’s hair with a sigh once he’s finished taking his statement.

When Steve sways as he stands, he insists on Apparating home with him, and stands awkwardly in the doorway, hands on his hips, until Steve says he’s fine at least five times, and tells him to just go.

It’s nice, and also makes him feel empty and cold. Maybe it’s stupid to be traumatized by an amatuer mugging, but it’d happened, and he’d been scared, and Billy Hargrove had stood there with a blank look on his face and watched him bleed.

Wow. Steve is fucking pathetic.

He’s thinking about tea, even though it’s nearly midnight, but he’s frozen with his hands curled around the kitchen door frame. The stupid ice cream maker is sitting on the counter, shiny with crome and steel. Billy figured out how to make pistachio the other day. It tasted disgusting.

Fuck.

He’s just about decided to go to bed when the knob on the front door jiggles a little with the force of a key. Billy never knocks, and somehow Steve knows it isn’t Robin or Heather. The little hairs on the back of his nape are prickling. His spine tingles, and his hands feel numb. His heart pounds as he watches Billy swing inside, mouth pulled down in a frown.

“Harrington,” Billy says when he spots him, “are you--”

“What the fuck, Hargrove?” It’s been too quiet, and Steve’s voice comes out as mostly a rasp.

Billy opens and closes his mouth, cheeks pink. “What?”

Steve gets up into his face, knowing it’s the absolute wrong move to take, but he can’t help it. _ What the fuck. _ “What _ was _ that?”

Billy’s face closes down at the jab of Steve’s finger into the middle of his chest, his jaw clenched. “Look,” he bites out, “Branson’s an asshole, but he’s in charge of my training. I’m--” 

“What the fuck does that have to do with pretending you didn’t know me?” His throat feels hot and raw, like he’s said too many words, but he can’t seem to stop himself.

Billy rolls his lips over his teeth and stays quiet.

“What,” Steve says, flailing a hand, “because he thought I was an idiot? He’d judge you for being _ friends _ with me?”

“We’re not friends, Harrington,” Billy says, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. 

Steve wants to scream, wants to tear his hair out. “That’s such _ horse_shit, Billy!”

“Is that what you thought this was?” His rough laugh is so obviously _ fake_, Steve knows it. “I put up with you because of Heather, and because you come along with Buckley, and there’s nothing I can do about that.” His mouth is curled in a sneer, and Steve absolutely knows it’s complete bullshit, knows Billy has his back up, and that’s _ partly Steve’s fault_, but he still thought they were past all this.

All his anger whooshes out and away, like smoke.

Steve says, quietly, “I can ask Hopper to help you get reassigned.”

“Right.” Billy barks out another harsh laugh. “Hopper hates my guts. Good luck with that.”

“He hates your guts because you beat the shit out of me.” Steve’s voice is _ calm_, thank you very much.

Billy looks tired. 

Steve says, “I don’t want to fight about this.”

BIlly nods, but his body is still tense.

Steve hitches an unsteady breath and says, “I think you should leave.”

There’s a brief, heartstopping moment, when Steve thinks Billy might balk. That he might say, _ fuck that_, and ignore him and move closer and _ stay_.

It’s not until it doesn’t actually happen that Steve realizes he really, really wished it had.

*

Steve wakes up with Robin looming over him, brandishing a small slip of paper.

She says, “Eleven says you were mugged last night.”

“That was fast,” Steve says on a yawn. He rubs a hand over his face and thinks about how early it is, how he feels like he’s been hit by a firebolt, and if he needs to be up this early for work or not.

“What happened?” She slaps him in the forehead with the note. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Steve doesn’t bother to mention that he’d knocked on their door, softly, once Billy had left and the apartment had seemed too empty.

“Nothing happened,” Steve says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Might as well get up now. “It was stupid. The herb shop owner on the corner of 4th street called the MLE.” He ducks his head. “Billy came.”

“Oh, so you met Branson? Was he as much of an asshole as Billy says? I mean, I guess Billy’s used to the vibe,” Robin knocks her elbow into Steve’s side, like they’re sharing some inside _ know_, “but it’s super shitty to have all your work hinge on if your boss decides he likes your stupid face or not.”

“Um. Can’t he just ask for a transfer?” Steve asks, mind tripping over itself. He’d thought this was all about him, god, but maybe this was really about Billy. Fuck.

Robin snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure that’ll go over real great with the MLE chief. Telling him he can’t hack it.”

“The chief’s _ Hopper_,” Steve says. Does no one actually think he knows the guy? He’s El’s annoying mom friend, Hopper gives him a hearty handshake and a shoulder squeeze every time he sees him. If Billy tells him that Branson’s an unfair dick, Hopper’s going to at least _ listen_. “Billy’s a moron.”

“Pot, kettle,” Robin says, but takes a hold of his injured wrist and rubs her thumb over the mostly-healed red mark running down his arm. 

“It wasn’t that bad,” Steve says, slowly twisting his arm out of her grip.

She arches an eyebrow at him. “Sure.” Usually her _ you’re an idiot _ isn’t left quite so unsaid, but he figures she’s making allowances for his trauma.

Steve’s life is a fucking mess. He’s so lucky Robin puts up with him.

Steve sighs and rubs hands over his face, squeezing his eyes shut. If Billy was on-shift last night, he’s probably home by now. Steve needs to nut up and say he’s sorry. Right?

Not that Steve’s the only one that needs to apologize, but he acknowledges that he probably stopped Billy from doing that the night before. The fact that Billy even came over, the concern before Steve shut him down... So this is up to him. 

He needs to figure out where Billy actually lives.

*

Despite hanging out with Billy for months, Steve’s never been to his apartment before. He’s never been _ invited _, but then again, Billy was never technically invited to visit Steve either.

So Steve’s a dick. This just keeps getting worse.

According to Robin--who judged him _ so hard_\--Billy lives in a walk up on the muggle side of London. Steve has to take a bus. Robin gives him a handful of unfamiliar coins and Steve probably gives the driver too much, given the weird look he gets, but he figures out where to get off and uses the pulley and everything, so he’s feeling accomplished and still slightly nauseous and strangely winded when faced with the charming stone facade of Billy’s apartment building.

He gingerly presses a button that says ‘Hargrove’ next to it in neat all caps, and is only a little alarmed that a buzzer sounds and the door clicks without Steve having to say anything at all.

The door to 3B is already slightly open when he makes his way up to the third floor.

Billy is giving him the stink-eye through the crack, blond curls flopping over his forehead. It’s getting too long, and Billy’s taken to pulling the back of it up into a ponytail, and it should probably look stupider than it actually does. He’s got on worn sweats, either just woken up, or still trying to get to sleep--there are smudges of purple under his eyes, and his nose looks red.

Steve takes a bracing breath and says, “So last night was a clusterfuck,” pushing his way past a belligerent Billy and into his flat. The best way to deal with Hargrove, honestly, is to be as straightforward as possible. The problem is that apparently they’re both shitty at talking to each other.

“What are you doing here, Harrington?” Billy says. He closes the front door and leans against it, watching Steve across the room.

Steve stares at him for a long moment wondering, bizarrely, how they got here. How they went from antagonizing each other to semi-peaceful coexistence, to Steve wanting to apologize for yelling at him and maybe wrapping him up into a hug. He says, “I’m sorry,” and Billy narrows his eyes at him.

“You’re sorry,” he says woodenly.

Steve casts his eyes around the room, unable to look directly at Billy’s frown, his unimpressed glare.

The apartment is messy but clean. A box with two windows opposite the door, a full bed under the angled eaves of the roofline and a small galley kitchen. There are hooks lining the wall by the door instead of a coat closet, and a flash of familiar gold catches Steve’s attention over Billy’s shoulder.

“Is that…” Steve cocks his head. “Is that my tie?” It’s Hufflepuff striped and silky and Steve had thought he’d left it up on the parapet that night, and had been too embarrassed about what had happened to go look. It’s knotted around a coat hook, tails hanging. It looks deliberate. It looks weird. “It is, isn’t it,” Steve says faintly. Settled innocuously next to Billy’s scarves, a battered leather jacket.

“No,” Billy says.

Steve doesn’t know why he’s so sure Billy’s lying.

He wrinkles his nose and stalks forward, making a beeline for the hooks behind him. “Why would you--”

“Harrington, _ don’t_.” 

An arm around his waist doesn’t stop him from reaching out.

Steve freezes when his fingers curl around the fabric, warmth shocking his system. Teeth clenched and vision whited out--_there’s a smile and it’s _ Steve’s _ smile, both indistinct and crystal clear, a foreign pressure in his chest. Laughter, his own embarrassing donkey snort, and his eyes prickle and his throat itches, and he feels like crying. _

He’s gasping when the fog clears, when Billy has torn the tie out of Steve’s grip, taken steps away from him, pale and furious.

“Are you fucking serious, Harrington?” His eyes are wide and dark and maybe just a little bit terrified.

Strong emotion. That tie had really fucking strong emotions all over it, and none of them had been Steve’s. It takes a few tries for him to clear his throat, mouth dry. Finally, he manages to get out: “Are you _ in love _ with me?”

Billy shifts from foot to foot, fists clenched at his sides. “Fuck off,” he says, but it’s _ not a no _.

He’s not sure how this is possible; Steve’s a hot mess on a good day. But Billy is not actually denying it. “How?” Steve says stupidly, immediately realizing that it doesn’t matter.

Billy makes a face; it’s not a particularly _ nice _one. He says, “How the fuck should I know?”

The tenseness in the room practically crackles. Billy’s got the tie wrapped around his arm, and the three feet between them might as well be a mile: he’s glaring daggers at Steve, and he’s probably not going to give him even an inch to maneuver.

That’s okay. Steve takes a deep breath. He’s got this.

He says, “So maybe you’re not in love with me,” and forces a shrug, like his words don’t matter.

The way Billy’s eyes soften and go wary make Steve incongruently warm inside.

“Maybe,” Steve goes on, sliding minutely closer to him, “you don’t even like me. Maybe you put up with me because of Robin and Holloway.” It’s what Billy told him, right, even though they both know that’s a blatant lie.

Steve is calm and Billy is fidgeting. 

Steve is _ calm_.

He’s figured this shit out. Apparently, sometimes having a divination affinity isn’t complete crap. Objects only ever show him the truth. It could have happened that night on the Astronomy tower. It could have happened any number of days in between then and now, and every time Billy touched the tie, deliberately or inadvertently when he went for his coat, or to close the door. Hows, whys and whens--objects don’t give a fuck, and neither, actually, does Steve.

Billy’s hands curl open at his sides, and his too-red mouth goes lax, and Steve wants to rub his thumb over it, but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t want Billy to feel cornered. That never ends well for anybody.

Instead, he says, very softly, “I like that you saved my tie.”

The long pause makes Steve’s inside squirm.

Finally, Billy says, “You do.”

Steve nods slowly and says, “I thought I’d lost it.”

Billy licks his lips. He looks down at the tie, and then up at Steve again, a tiny crack in his expression: “Whatever. You can have it back.” He doesn’t make any move to give it over, though.

“That’s okay.” Steve slides his hands into his pockets. “D’you wanna get lunch? Or do you need to sleep?”

Billy’s face opens even more, with a flash of bewilderment. “Uh.” He clearly expected _ more_, and Steve isn’t going to give it to him. He scuffs a hand through his wild curls and says, “I should probably sleep.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “Dinner? Before your shift?”

Steve tries not to look surprised when Billy says yes.

*

It takes a little more pleading than Steve expected, but Hopper’s decent, and Branson’s been cruising for it, apparently, so Billy’s near-giddy, “They told Branson to get fucked,” when he swings by Robin’s that night is not a surprise.

Steve _ hmmms _.

Billy ignores him and says, “I don’t even have to go in tonight. Chief told me I’m shadowing Michaelson in the morning. He’s scrapping all of Branson’s reports.”

_ That _is surprising, and makes Steve wonder what Branson had written about him, and how Hopper knew they were lies.

Steve just smiles over his shoulder at him and says, “That’s great,” though.

Billy grins back, a flash of clear happiness that makes his eyes weirdly bright, and then glances around the kitchen like he’s finally seeing it. “What are you doing?”

“Cooking,” Steve says, shoving some spaghetti into the pot. He hisses when some of the steam hits his hand, and then pushes the rest in with a wooden spoon.

“You can cook?”

“Shocking, I know,” Steve says dryly, “but I can actually boil water.”

The gravy’s from a jar, but he put olive oil and fresh garlic in it. He’s got thick slices of bread already cut, from the bakery around the corner.

Billy says, “Huh,” and moves forward to lean a hip onto the counter next to the stove.

There’s a spoon stirring the gravy and Steve’s got an auto-draining spell on the pasta, with a timer set. His palms are clammy, but all in all he doesn’t feel that nervous.

He says, “You look nice,” after taking in the tucked button-down, rolled sleeves and flash of bare chest. His jeans are belted, face freshly shaved, hair mostly tamed. A sudden flash of panic balls itself in Steve’s stomach that maybe he’s dressed for someone else--an unexpected night off on the town--but Billy just stares at Steve and says, “Thanks, pretty boy,” and steals a carrot off the cutting board.

“Holloway here?” Billy says. “They out?”

Steve’s trying not to be shy about this. He’d told Robin and Holloway he needed the apartment, and after Robin had laughed her ass off at him, they’d agreed to eat out.

He says, “They’ll be home later,” and Billy just nods.

He’s different from earlier. Less wary around the edges, but more puffed up--Steve has a hard time figuring out if it’s bravado or happiness.

Steve has most of the advantages here, though. Billy probably knows it.

He says, “Finish the salad, will you?” and starts setting the table.

WC yowls when Steve shoos him off a chair, but leaves the room with minimal fuss and an extra large amount of floating cat hair. 

Dinner itself is weird. Quiet. They’re both tiptoeing around each other, Steve thinks for vastly different reasons. So far, Billy probably thinks Steve’s taken this whole thing _ well_. That maybe after months of being kind-of friends, he’s trying to smooth things over. Let him down easy.

By the time Steve finishes his spaghetti, Billy looks like a wound-up spring. He doesn’t look _ mad _about it.

Finally, Billy says, “We should talk about it.” He’s bouncing his leg, but he’s eaten most of his meal.

Steve pushes his chair back and picks up his plate and says, “We should listen to some music.” He places it into the sink to deal with later and makes his way out of the kitchen before he chickens out.

“Christmas music, Harrington?” Billy says when he follows him into the living room.

Steve grins, nerves hidden in his belly. He drops down onto the sofa and thinks about how he should have made coffee, or tea, or hot chocolate, something he can steady his hands on. But Billy follows him down there, too, and he’s a warm welcome weight all along his side.

Steve yawns and stretches his arm across the back of the sofa, behind Billy.

“You know,” Billy says, “you aren’t being as sly as you think you are.”

Steve’s pretty sure he’s being exactly as sly as he thinks he is: which is basically not at all. And he’s rewarded when Billy relaxes into him, cozily domestic.

Outside is more rain than snow, wet and nearly freezing. Some hip wizard alt band that Steve thinks kind of sounds like river trolls are singing about frozen willows and mountain winds. Billy and Steve are more like worn rocks rubbing together than puzzle pieces, but Steve feels like they work together anyhow.

“Are you going to kiss me, King Steve,” Billy says, looking up at him under hooded eyelids, mouth a smile but _ mocking_, and Steve hasn’t heard that name in years. 

Steve says, softly, still sort of in awe, “You love me.”

Billy’s entire body is aggressive. Everything about him, from his hair to his voice to his shapely calves--he’s always bouncing on the balls of his feet, stance set, ready to give shit before anyone else can take.

That used to scare him.

Maybe it still should.

Bringing up a knee and turning into him, Steve cups a hand over Billy’s jaw and brings their mouths together in one smooth motion.

Billy _ hums_. His grip is sure on his hip now, reminiscent of that night on the tower, where Billy moved exactly how he wanted to, and Steve was just along for the ride.

“You gonna still respect me in the morning, pretty boy?” Billy says against his lips, grin almost too wide, and shame burns in a little ball over Steve’s heart.

Steve has probably never done anything smart in his life. He’s always one step behind and too lazy to pull ahead.

He says, “Can’t hide from you this time. You have a key.”

  
  


5.

The tube is still dreadful. It smells like feet and old wax and pine needles.

The train, at this late hour on Christmas Eve, is full of drunken carollers, shiny chrome framing decorated with ratty red ribbons and faux sprigs of holly. 

Billy falls asleep on him with the jolting rock of the stuffy, too-warm car, strung out from extra shift hours with Michaelson, to make up for whatever shit Branson did with him for months. He hasn’t complained.

Steve is armed with a bottle of wine for Aunt Charlotte, tucked between his feet, and a notebook of handwritten recipes in the front slot of his satchel, ready for May and the ice cream shoppe in town, even though Billy still makes fun of him for it.

There’s a sharp, heavy elbow pinching his side, slotted between the handrails, and Billy murmurs in his sleep, and sighs. 

Steve presses his cheek into his mass of curls and closes his eyes.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> sometimes I write stuff on [Tumblr](https://pantstomatch.tumblr.com/)


End file.
